Through the Door in the Sky
by Matrix Refugee
Summary: What happened to Truman once he stepped through the door in the backdrop? Did he find Sylvia? Was he able to blend into the real world. . . ?
1. The Grand Escape

+J.M.J.+  
  
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
I do not "own" the characters, concepts, etc. of The Truman Show, which are the   
  
property of Peter Weir, Andrew Niccol, Columbia Pictures, et al. I also do not   
  
"own" any of the actors who allegedly "appear" in the "film", except Otto   
  
Stuckmeyer and Jake Jacobi, who are my own creations.   
  
Author's note:  
  
The Truman Show begs for a sequel; after Truman opens that door in the painted   
  
backdrop and steps through, what happens to him? Does he escape? How does he   
  
adjust to the real reality? And…does he find Sylvia? To fom4life, who got on my   
  
back to finish this—after he'd told me I should find some more lucrative end for   
  
my writing talent; his niece saw the movie and wanted to know what happened   
  
next, and to the All Mighty: "Ev'rything I do…I do it for you…"  
  
But first, something I doubt any other fanfiction has ever before had…  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
Ed Harris Jude Law  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
Featuring  
  
  
  
Otto Stuckmeyer Joe Pantoliano  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
And Themselves  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
* * * * * *  
  
Chapter I: The Grand Escape  
  
  
  
As he stepped through the doorway, Truman stepped into pitch-black darkness so thick he feared for a moment that he had gone blind. He glanced back, but the light still shone from the soundstage.  
  
The soundstage…his world had been the set of a television show. He turned away from that phony light and walked into the darkness. He put his hands out before him, feeling his way around, feeling for walls or other obstacles.  
  
His eyes adjusted to the blackness. He made out shapes in the shadows: trucks for hauling large set pieces or what have you, piles of lumber and other things he couldn't identify. He groped around them, trying to find a door out.  
  
Something squawked in the dark, a garbled and static-crackling sound like a voice on a radio.  
  
A beam of light hit him in the face. Truman flinched and almost turned back.  
  
"Who's there?!" a deep voice barked behind the light. Truman froze, not knowing where to run. Part of him hoped the stranger behind the light would ignore him if he stayed still.  
  
"It's him," said a second voice, behind the light. "20-3, we got him down here, what are we supposed to do?"  
  
The voice on the walky-talky garbled an order.  
  
The shadow, or rather the security guard stepped toward him, bringing the light. "Okay, Truman, let's get back inside where it's safe," the first guard coaxed.  
  
"No way!" Truman snapped. He bolted out of the light and ran blindly into the dark.  
  
He smacked into a wall, but he kept his wits to feel around it for a doorway. He felt a huge metal overhead door and scrambled to find a switch to open it. He hit something that gave.  
  
A motor clanked and whined into motion. The darkness lifted before him. As soon as the door had opened enough for him to duck through, he bolted out into the light.  
  
Uniformed men rushed at him, trying to enclose him. He dodged them and ran down a vast corridor, toward the light.  
  
Something exploded behind him. An orange nylon net fell over him, but he squirmed away and fled into the light.  
  
He ran through a set of wide-open doors into the sunlight. The real sunlight from a real sun in the real sky shone down on him, warmer than the fake light in the studio. The pavement beneath his feet…he was running on real asphalt over real dirt on the real earth. For a moment he slowed down to look around him.  
  
Another shot cracked behind him. He bolted to escape the nylon net that fell toward him. It wrapped around his leg, but he ran as hard as he could, trying not to trip on it, till it unwound and dropped off him. He fled, looking for a way out of the lot.  
  
A guard with a German shepherd on a leash stepped out from between two trucks parked outside the building. The guard snapped off the lead.  
  
"Rolf! Get him!" the guard shouted, pointing at Truman. The dog snarled and lunged at Truman. He forced himself to stay still. As the dog lunged at him, he kicked it in the throat. The dog yelped and ran away. Truman ran like hell for a chain link perimeter fence he saw in the distance.  
  
He reached the fence and fought to climb it. He struggled to the top and crept between the strands of barbed wire at the top. Scratched but still breathing, he climbed a few feet down, then dropped to the ground, landing on the shoulder of an access road.  
  
Security guards stepped out of the bushes and from concealed cars. Some held more dogs by the leashes; others were armed with more net guns and tranquilizer guns. He forced himself to hyper focus on the main road just visible through the trees up ahead. He ran toward it with his last strength. His lungs burned. A stitch in his side stabbed him at every step. His head sang, sweat pouring from his body. He felt the guards' eyes following him as they waited for an order over their radios. But they left him alone. He hadn't run like this since he'd tried out for track in college. But he had a better reason this time:  
  
Freedom.  
  
Truman almost passed out from exhaustion and relief when he felt the dirt at the side of the main road crunching under his tennis shoes. He looked back for a second. The guards had stepped back, guns lowered, dogs lying at their feet.  
  
He had passed the first barrier.  
  
He ran for several hundred yards more, then he dropped to his knees in the dirt and, despite his scratches, rubbed his face in it. Real dirt of the real ground, nothing fake or shipped in.  
  
But something pricked his thoughts. I can't lie here forever; they might change their minds.  
  
Whoever "They" were.  
  
He pulled himself to his feet and started walking along the road.  
  
* * * * *   
  
At Cristoff's orders, one camera remained trained on a single spot on the set: the open door.  
  
He sat alone in his apartment high atop the Ecosphere. He sat alone in his chair, staring at a monitor that bore the lone image of a blue sky, an open door, a rectangle of black at the top of a camouflaged stairway.  
  
The work of twenty-nine years had ended like some sick joke. His star actor, who remained more than a star to him, had escaped him. The very thing he had hoped and worked to prevent had happened.  
  
On the glass-topped end table at his elbow lay a semi-automatic handgun. Loaded.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia wasn't sure where to drive first, right to the EcoSphere and find Truman there, or to headquarters to tell the rest of the TLF, the Truman Liberation Front. Ten years of separation, and five years of helping the cause for Truman's freedom; even his escape didn't make those last five years a waste of time.  
  
She knew Truman couldn't have gotten far right away, so she stopped and ran to a payphone at a gas station. She dialed the number for the office.  
  
"TLF, the Truman Liberation Front," a young man's voice said when it picked up. She heard applause and cheers in the background; someone was singing Beethoven's Ninth while someone else sang the "Hallelujah Chorus".  
  
"Hey, Jerry, I'm driving to the EcoSphere. Is anyone else going there?"  
  
"I'm about to round up the welcome-to-the-real-world committee. Shall we meet up with you?"  
  
"No, not right away. It's best if he sees a familiar face first."  
  
"Your face will help him make the transition; he'll find out what you really look like," he said with the usual delicate sarcasm.  
  
"I gotta run."  
  
"We'll run slower after you. Death to the demon Eugene Cristoff!"  
  
She hung up and jumped back into her tiny rat car.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Amid all the celebrating in TLF world headquarters in an office space over a box factory, a slim, slight-built young man with dark hair and green eyes set a phone receiver down slowly. Televisions throughout the war room carried the final image of The Truman Show: the open doorway in the painted "sky".  
  
Jerry picked up the phone again and dialed. The line rang for a while, then it picked up.  
  
"Jaaahh?" a deep, sleepy voice asked.  
  
"Hey, Dietrich, put the TV on."  
  
"What station?"  
  
"Any station. It's happened."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Truman sat for a long while on the embankment, catching his breath in the shelter of some bushes, looking back at the massive domed building he had just left. It was so big it blotted out half the sky in one direction; the thing must have been ten miles long from one end to the other. He turned away from it and turned back to the road. A cool breeze and the sunlight shining through the leaves dried his clothes, still sopping from the water and now damp with his sweat.  
  
He leaned back on the slim trunk of a small tree and breathed deeply, trying to get his bearings. This road had to go somewhere, but he wasn't sure which way to go.  
  
A few cars whizzed by. He considered thumbing for a ride, but he still wasn't sure which way he should go; anyone who picked him up would ask him where he was going. He couldn't exactly say, "I'm going to Fiji," they'd think he was a nut.  
  
For that matter, was hitchhiking to the nearest city an option? If he had been the star of a TV show, how famous was he? How well viewed was 'The Truman Burbank Show, Starring Truman Burbank', or whatever it was called. Any driver who picked him up might recognize him. He decided he was better off walking as far back from the road as possible, where he could still see it and follow it.  
  
He got up and looked around. The road to the left somehow looked promising. He started walking that way, through the bushes along the road. At length he abandoned that idea: the leaves and branches kept whipping his face. He finally settled on walking along the roadbed, keeping his head turned away from the cars.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Only one access road lead to the EcoSphere, so Sylvia knew exactly what road she'd find Truman on. He couldn't get far; she'd be able to pick him up easily and drive him to headquarters, where they'd had everything ready for him if they ever freed him.  
  
Their original plan had been to lobby public and political support to have OmniCam's broadcast license suspended for breach of privacy and then to have them slapped with slavery charges and shut down. But these methods had been to little avail: the public took too much interest and delight in watching "The Show" and the few politicians and senators affiliated with the TLF consistently got outvoted by factions just as blind as the rest of the general populace. Their chief ally, Ariel Schmit (R-California), once delivered the longest filibuster in history, thirty-six hours, trying to block a bill that would protect OmniCam. The bill was still stalled, but now that Truman had escaped, it might just go through.  
  
But now all those efforts had proved unnecessary. Now they would have the task of helping Truman adjust to the real world. And she hoped she could help.  
  
But it would be great to see Truman again, for real. She had the episodes of their short-lived romance on DVD, but she barely needed to watch them: the images montaged in her mind and heart every day.  
  
Screaming tires broke her reverie. She stared into her rearview.  
  
A black Cadillac bore down on her from behind. She stamped on the accelerator to keep from getting rear-ended. The car behind speeded up.  
  
BANG!  
  
Her car jerked forward and spun out. She forced herself to breath evenly as she steered into the spin. She focused her eyes on the dashboard to keep from getting dizzy; the car lost momentum.  
  
She stopped facing the wrong way. She looked back. The Caddy barreled up the road and over the crest of a hill, out of sight.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Truman walked up a hill; he hadn't passed any buildings yet, but he knew he had to be getting close to civilization, unless that huge fortress he'd just escaped was out in the middle of nowhere. Maybe it was. Maybe the maniac who'd dreamt up this sick joke had been careful to place the fortress far away from other people. Maybe he'd have to thumb a ride after all.  
  
Tires screeched beyond the hill. What was this?  
  
A huge black Cadillac with a smashed headlight lurched over the crest of the hill. It plowed straight toward him. He dove into the bushes and tried to hide.  
  
Three men in black jumped out of the Cadillac and crashed into the bracken after him. He ran, dodging branches and leaves.  
  
He tripped over a fallen log and fell flat. He noticed it was hollow, big enough around for him to crawl into. Ignoring the spider webs on the end, he crawled inside, feet first.  
  
Footsteps crunched on the fallen leaves. He lay still as death. Someone passed by the end of the trunk. They walked away.  
  
He lay there for a long time, not daring to move until he knew the strangers had gone. Finally, when he heard nothing that sounded like his pursuers, he pulled himself out of the log.  
  
He sat on top of the log for a long while, listening. Finally, he got up, brushed himself off, and limped back toward the road.  
  
He hid in the bushes for a while, watching the road. Nothing went by except for a chicken truck and some regular cars. He stepped out of his covert and set off again.  
  
Someone else wanted him, he guessed. That car had come from the opposite direction, so it had nothing to do with the Fortress. Then who were those men?  
  
He didn't have the energy to waste pondering this; he had to keep walking.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia breathed deeply, trying to get her bearings back. She turned the car around; her neck ached and she had to get to a payphone, call an ambulance, have her car towed, call Jerry and let him know it had been abortive. She'd had a friend die of whiplash, so she knew the consequences.  
  
She found a gas station and pulled in. the pain her neck nearly made her faint. The attendant, an older man in his sixties wearing neat coveralls, brought her inside, got her some coffee and made the call for her.  
  
"You get clipped by that Caddy that ran through doin' a hundred a little while back?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Thought as much, way they teared through. Say, yer someone, ain'tcha?" He looked at the screen of the mini-TV that stood on the counter; the news carried a shot of the open door, while a commentator quacked about the "unprecedented development". He looked back at her. "Yer her, yer his real girl."  
  
"I am."  
  
* * * * * *   
  
At length, Truman saw signs of life: a few gas stations and houses at first, then small businesses and roadside stands. At length, he passed by larger shops and stores, shopping centers and office buildings, all real, all so different from the quaint little structures he had known.  
  
He hadn't eaten since the night before and he'd been walking for hours now. He had to find some place to get a meal.  
  
  
  
To be continued…  
  
  
  
Afterword:  
  
That was a tantalizingly short chapter, wasn't it? I'll be trying to get the next chapters out at least one a week, since I have two other fanfictions in progress. For those of you who are familiar with my infamous "A.I. [Artificial Intelligence]" fictions, I got back to this while trying to take a break from the lascivious Gigolo Joe fictions, only to have a character who resembles Jude Law show up in this (the fact that I just saw another, considerably darker reality-bending movie, eXistenZ, which features the green-eyed beauty, doesn't help either!). One of the advantages of being unemployed: you get lots of time to writewritewrite… the hard part is typetypetyping it! 


	2. The Helping Hand

+J.M.J.+  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky  
  
  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I wrote this under the influence of the soundtrack for "Lord of the Rings I: The   
  
Fellowship of the Ring", so there is the start of a mild thematic similarity   
  
between this and LOTR I: Truman as a cross between Frodo and Sam; his   
  
mentor/guardian figure as Gandalf; the mysterious goons in the black jackets,   
  
driving around in the big black Caddy might be a modernized, motorized cross   
  
between the Black Riders and Saruman's Uruk-Hai; or it could even be influenced   
  
by The Matrix, with the TLF as the crew of the Neb seeking Neo, Dietrich as   
  
Morpheus, and the thugs in black as the Agents (phones show up quite a bit in   
  
this, too); it's even got "Joey Pants", who played Cypher…but I grossly digress.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I.  
  
  
  
First the fake movie credits…only in my dreams…  
  
  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
Featuring  
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law  
  
Joe Pantoliano  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
  
  
And Themselves  
  
  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
  
  
* * * * * *   
  
Chapter II: The Helping Hand  
  
  
  
Cristoff's intercom buzzed frantically, but perhaps the frenzy came from within his own perturbed heart. He got up from his chair and went to answer it.  
  
"Mr. Cristoff, there's an Azor Montressor who wishes to see you," a security guard's voice announced.  
  
"Tell him to go away, I can't talk to him right now."  
  
Something scuffled on the end of the line.  
  
"I will speak to you now…if I may be so bold," said a deep voice with a gruff but urbane tone. "You're the epitome of the artist in his ivory tower, has anyone ever told you that?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
The voice chuckled low in its throat. "You ignored my calls, my letters, my emails. So I thought I'd take a more direct approach."  
  
Cristoff breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind.  
  
"Are we mooning over the little bird that flew away? I can get him back on the airwaves again, if you like."  
  
"Not on your terms, Montressor, not on your terms."  
  
"Why not? Aren't they reasonable enough for you? I put him in my production and we split the earnings fifty-fifty."  
  
"I can't subject him to that kind of work."  
  
"Why? Because your little hothouse flower couldn't stand up to it for a day? That's just the kind of treatment that might do him good, let him see how the other half lives."  
  
"Not the way you suggest. It would kill him."  
  
"What is it, Eugene? Too realistic for you? Wake up, man! We're living in the 21st century. Sweetness and light went out with curbside check-ins at airports."  
  
"Montressor, may I ask you a question?"  
  
"Anything at all, Mr. Frank Capra."  
  
"What were your last show's ratings over in Europe?"  
  
Silence filled with nervous breathing answered him for a moment. "More than they were the season before."  
  
"Give me a figure."  
  
"Not as good as yours, but your show took up a whole network all its own."  
  
"Your line of production can't boast that, can it?"  
  
"They'll come to it when they find it in the TV Guide. They may even flock to it because he's in it."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Hungry and exhausted from walking for well over an hour, Truman dragged himself into a small diner. He found an empty booth in the back and dropped onto the seat. A TV hung from the ceiling near the counter, the new quacking away.  
  
"Truman Burbank, star of television's most-watched, highest rated and longest-running show, may soon return to the airwaves," the anchor's voiceover announced over a short montage of clips from…the show, ending with the open door way. "A spokesperson from OmniCam Corporation says controversial film maker Azor Montressor has offered to hire Truman for a proposed 'Real reality show'."  
  
White print appeared on the screen as a new voice spoke.  
  
"'The new show, which currently goes by the working title "Harsh Zone" will play like an urban cross between the "Survivor" series and "Temptation Island"'," said a deep, gruff but insinuating voice. "It's decidedly NOT for the faint-hearted or the prudish, but in some ways it will play like a continuation of Truman's life…divorced from the imitation small-town setting…and minus the saccharine."  
  
A tall busty waitress came up to his table with a menu. "Can I get you something to drink?"  
  
"Uh…milk, please, if you have it," Truman said.  
  
"Hey, Ernie! Squeeze me a cow!" she screeched over her shoulder. As she moved on to the next table, Truman saw her eyes swing from the TV back to him in a discrete double take.  
  
He studied the menu, looking for something at a reasonable price. He almost passed out: the prices were twice as high as they would be for the same items in the diner in Seahaven…not that it was real, either.  
  
He chose a ham and cheese melt sandwich and some cottage fries.  
  
It took a long time for the waitress to bring his order, but the diner was crowded. He started to get concerned that he might pass out, but soon enough she came and set down a heavy plate laden with a good-sized sandwich steaming deliciously, and a basket of fries. First meal in the real world, he thought, digging in.  
  
When he had finished, he called for the check. But then he discovered something:  
  
He didn't have his wallet.  
  
The waitress glanced out the window and then at the TV. "It's on me," she said under her breath.  
  
The door opened and two big guys in knee-length black coats entered, flanking a slightly shorter guy with a balding crew cut. They looked around like they meant business.  
  
"You come with me," she whispered and taking Truman by the arm with her into the back rooms.  
  
"You better run. Those guys work for the Montressor b-----d who's after you. They come in here every week, 'cause they've been up at the studio pesting Mr. Cristoff."  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Oh, that's right…he's the man who thought up The Show."  
  
"So you know who I am?"  
  
The waitress laughed gently. "Sure do! My brother-in-law taped every episode of the show for me." She reached into a recess of her dress and pulled out a small wad of bills. "Here's all I got on me; you need it more."  
  
"I shouldn't, you've been too kind already. I should repay you somehow."  
  
"Bull----!" She looked to the front. "Well, I'll tell you this much; part of me used to fantasize about, well, getting' crazy with you. But a kiss on the cheek 'll do."  
  
He leaned over and kissed her cheek; she tasted of sweat and kitchen grease and Ivory soap, but it didn't bother him somehow.  
  
She touched the spot on her cheek reverently and blushed. "I ain't never gonna wash that spot again," she said. Business-like again, she led him to the back door and opening it, gave him a gentle swat on the behind. "You get going and get yourself a disguise; they'll come looking for you."  
  
He went, out into the alleyway and threaded through the urban crevasse among the buildings.  
  
He found a phone booth on a street corner and paged through the Gs in the white pages, looking for Sylvia's number.  
  
Half the pages had been torn out, including the one that probably had her number on it.  
  
He sighed and kept flipping pages.  
  
"Okay, if you were gonna find someone, where would you look?" he asked himself. Can't all the police, they may be looking for me.  
  
He leafed through the yellow pages, looking for detective agencies.  
  
Half of the page listing "private investigators" had been torn out, but as he started to close the book, his eye fell on one listing:  
  
Hohenzoller, Dietrich, P.I. Lost persons and loved ones found.  
  
He tore out the page and put it in his pocket next to the patchwork picture of Sylvia he had pieced together from clippings he'd torn from fashion magazines.  
  
But he took the waitress's advice: he went to a drug store and bought himself a pair of sunglasses and a canvas slouch hat. He was going to have to ask people for directions.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia's injuries were minor, nothing that required much more than her wearing a neck brace for a few days unless the pain got worse or she had complications. She called TLF headquarters to tell them what had happened to her.  
  
"I'm sorry, I failed.  
  
"It wasn't your fault," Cole Tenniel, the director said reassuringly. "You did your best. We've got enough eyes to keep a look out for him. You rest up; you'll need your strength. I'll send Jerry over to pick you up, and send Bettina to drive your car home."  
  
"It's totaled. I don't have any insurance."  
  
"We'll see what we can do."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Somehow, Truman found Hohenzoller's office, above a seedy-looking bar. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and went in.  
  
A tall, heavy-built woman in her fifties sat behind the desk, manning a computer.  
  
"Is Mr.…Hohenzoller in?" Truman asked her.  
  
"He's in his office," she replied. "What's your name? I'll buzz him."  
  
"My name is Anderton, Joel Anderton. I'm trying to find my former girlfriend."  
  
She eyed him narrowly over he rimless glasses and reached for the intercom.  
  
"Mr. Hohenzoller, there's a Mr. Joel Anderton who wants to see you about a lost love," she announced. She switched off the intercom and pointed over he shoulder toward the inner door, which stood ajar. "He's in there."  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he said. He followed her pointing thumb, pushed open the door and stepped through.  
  
He entered a dark room filled with the hum of computers. Indicator LEDs glowed green and amber in the shadows.  
  
Suddenly, one side of the room lit with an eerie half-light. A short figure in shabby clothes lunged out of the shadows, brandishing a gun.  
  
"Back off, or I'll shoot!" the figure roared. He took aim. Truman stood staring, too startled to move. A shot cracked, closely followed by another. The figure dropped, cursing and clutching his arm.  
  
The room grew brighter. Truman looked around.  
  
Behind a computer desk covered with towers and boxes and peripherals stood the biggest man Truman had ever seen. He stood well over six feet tall, wide as a door between his shoulders, barrel-chested and barrel-bellied, but well muscled, even graceful in an elephantine way. His pallid gray-blue eyes scanned up and down Truman, then fixed on his face.  
  
"Mr.…. Anderson?" the big man asked, stepping toward him.  
  
"Uh, yeah, that's me."  
  
The giant extended one huge hand to him, open. "I am Dietrich Hohenzoller," he said, his voice touched with a foreign accent, probably German. Truman cautiously took the detective's hand and shook it.  
  
"But, perhaps I am mistaken, your real name is Truman Burbank."  
  
"You mean…" Truman looked around for a television. The wall behind him, where the gunman had been, now blossomed with a thousand colors, melting and changing. It was a projection screen.  
  
"I was not a regular viewer, but I have some friends who are. And, at their encouraging, I have been following your story since your daring escape this morning."  
  
"Why are you telling me all this?"  
  
"For your own good. Before I can help you, I must inform you that you are now at the head of the list of missing persons. Every police unit and investigator, private and public, has been put on the alert for you, in case you should decide to be a good little boy and return to OmniCam, the media conglom that, for all intents and purposes, owns you."  
  
"I'm not turning myself in."  
  
"I know you are not."  
  
"How do you…? What, are you a mind-reader or something?"  
  
"No, I just know your type of man." He pulled up a chair and gestured to it. "Take the burden from your feet; you must be tired."  
  
"Thanks." Truman sat down.  
  
Hohenzoller sat down behind the desk "Now what precisely brings you here?"  
  
Truman reached into his pants pocket and took out the composite picture of Sylvia. "I want you to find her; her name is Sylvia. I went to high school and started college with her…well, I guess I mean, she used to be an actress…"  
  
"On the show? Yes, I've seen some of the important incidents of The Show."  
  
"It's important. I mean, she told me the truth, the real truth. I wouldn't be out here now if she hadn't told me that one little thing that really started all this. And, uh…" He felt his cheeks burning.  
  
Hohenzoller smiled. "And she is the one beautiful woman who means all the world to you. Do you know her last name?"  
  
"No, uh, she went by the name Lauren Garland, so maybe her last name is Garland."  
  
The big man studied the picture and smoothed it out gently with his fingertips. "I will do what I can."  
  
Truman clasped and unclasped his hands. "I, uh, don't have much money. How much will I owe you?"  
  
"No charge."  
  
Truman got up to leave. "Well, uh, in that case, I won't take any more of your time." Hohenzoller rose with him and took his shoulder, firmly but gently, enough to stop him.  
  
"I do not wish to differ with you, Mr. Burbank, but it is unsafe out there, for now."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"There is a price on your head, and someone must see to it that no one pays it or takes possession of the good in question: meaning you."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"I mean, you will not find Sylvia unless you go into hiding."  
  
"What? Where? What am I supposed to do?"  
  
"I shall handle the intricacies. I will find a safe room for you until something else can be arranged. You will have to stay put there till then."  
  
"You mean put me under lock and key? I just escaped."  
  
"This is not to keep you in, it would be a temporary arrangement to keep your enemies out. Sort of like the mystery stories where the detective puts the star witness in an anonymous hotel room to keep her enemies from finding her."  
  
"I'm afraid I didn't read those sort of mysteries…but I guess I'm living one."  
  
Hohenzoller reached for the phone and dialed. "Hallo, Maureen? It's Hohenzoller…Yes, I'll need a room for a week…good, good, good, Thank you." He hung up the phone. "Wait here, I'll call a cab."  
  
Hohenzoller got up and went out, leaving the office door ajar. Truman dimly heard him talking to the secretary.  
  
Jumping catfish, I've only been free for a few hours, and I'll be under lock and key again, he thought. But if it keeps the wackos I just escaped from, from coming after me, I guess that's what I gotta do.  
  
A few minutes later, Truman, wearing his sunglasses and the slouch hat, got into a taxicab a few doors down from Hohenzoller's office. Hohenzoller got in beside him and pulled the door shut.  
  
"So, you close the deal with the pickle company?" Hohenzoller asked in a flat American accent.  
  
"Yeah, it's a sweet deal, sweet as their gherkins. Get it?" Truman said, playing along.  
  
They chatted like this all the way to the Motel 6. Hohenzoller paid their fare and they went in.  
  
They checked in and went to the room. Hohenzoller closed the door behind him.  
  
"Do not answer the phone and do not leave this place. I will be back later. Got it?"   
  
"Yes, sir, general sir!" Truman teased.  
  
With that, Hohenzoller went out. Truman plopped down on one of the beds. The wild night and the topsy-turvy day took their effect on him: he fell asleep.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia waited outside the hospital, sitting on a bench, leaning back against a concrete pillar that supported the carport.  
  
At length, Jerry's beat-to-death Land Rover ground up the drive and pulled up in front of her. Jerry got out, then opened the passenger side door to shove a laundry basket and a box of crackers into the back seat before he helped her into the front seat.  
  
"You do your laundry?" she asked.  
  
"That's from last night. I've been too busy babysitting the phone—amongst other things—to fold it. Not that I have anyplace to put it." Jerry lived out of the Land Rover when he wasn't couch-surfing. Since he'd been evicted for late rent six months before, he'd slept in the apartments or houses of almost every TLF worker and volunteer, including her own.  
  
He got into the driver's seat and pulled the door shut, hard.  
  
"So how's the neck?" he asked.  
  
"It's all right, I just have to wear this brace for a couple days."  
  
"I suppose, when you see Truman again, you can tell him you got these wounds fighting to help him escape the clutches of the henchmen of another evil director who's trying to exploit him?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"You haven't heard the news yet? There's this other director who wants Truman for some show he's doing."  
  
"So you weren't just being a nut about some evil director?"  
  
"No, some creep named Montressor wants to put Truman in some weird, sick reality show, something the exact diametric opposite of The Show."  
  
"I wonder if that car that hit me had something to do with this Montressor."  
  
"It bloody well could, I thought that myself when you called in and told us you'd been whacked going in to the EcoSphere. I've a friend who's a detective; maybe I should call him in to figure this out. He's a good detective, too."  
  
"Maybe you should."  
  
Once they reached her apartment building, he helped her up the stairs to her door on the second floor.  
  
"You want me to stick around and keep an eye on you in case they sniff out where you live?" he offered.  
  
"No, thanks, I'll be all right; they'll be needing you back at headquarters."  
  
He eyed her with concern. "You sure?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He headed out the door. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Much later, someone nudged him awake. He opened his eyes. Hohenzoller stood beside the bed, looking down.  
  
"Sleep well, Truman?"  
  
"Yeah, just plain got worn out." He smelled warm food. On the table stood a couple Chinese take-out boxes; over the chair back hung a plain gray suit about his size, and on the seat lay a few shirts and some other clothes.  
  
"I hope you like Chinese and I hope those things fit you."  
  
"I was about to say 'Hey, you did some shopping!' Thanks, I was thinking I needed something else to wear while this stuff is in the wash." He got up and helped himself to the food. "Uh, you want any?"  
  
"I have eaten already, but thank you." Dietrich took up his position near the door, where he could watch the window.  
  
"So you gonna clue me in on all the hush-hush, or is that part of the plan?" Truman asked.  
  
"It is a long story."  
  
"I got time. I'd like to know what all this is about."  
  
"I know much of the key information, which I learned from some friends of mine, but I do not know all that went on. The show that was built around your life, from the moment of your birth, was the brainchild of an otherwise brilliant director, one Eugene Cristoff. The OmniCam Corporation, a massive media conglomerate which owns several networks all over the world, helped him build it up from a simple little show about a small child, to the complex drama that it was. They funded the construction of the EcoSphere, the complex that you escaped from this morning. They, in a sense, 'own' you, which is why there have been factions at work trying to have the corporation slapped with slavery charges amongst other charges, and have you freed."  
  
"But I beat 'em to it."  
  
"Up to this point. Last I have heard, OmniCam has cancelled the show, and is considering turning you over to one of the lesser directors under its aegis, a man called Azor Montressor." Dietrich's face took on a troubled look, but it quickly passed as he continued talking. My understanding, from what I have heard on the news broadcasts, is that Montressor approached Cristoff, looking for you and trying to cut a deal with Cristoff, but he would hardly speak to Montressor. Some of Montressor's…'associates', if you will, went out this morning to escort you to his offices here in the city and thence to his studio in Switzerland."  
  
"I wonder if those were the goons who chased me through the woods this morning."  
  
"They will be looking for you; that is why I am keeping you here."  
  
"Okay, for the heck of it, who is this Montressor dude and why does he want me so bad?"  
  
Dietrich was silent for a moment, except for his breathing, which had grown briefly audible. "He is the last director you should ever have to work for, ever. You know what a snuff film is?"  
  
Truman shrugged. "A movie about powdered chewing tobacco?"  
  
"It is an especially violent, pornographic movie in which the actors are often genuinely injured. Or killed."  
  
Truman almost choked on his mouthful. "Oh, my God. And this Montressor wants to put me in something like…that?"  
  
Dietrich wagged his head sagely. "I cannot say what he has in mind for you, but to guess from the kind of films and TV shows he has produced in the past, I cannot foresee him changing his style for your benefit, especially because, as I understand, he has a great deal of criticism for Cristoff and his work."  
  
"Well, so do I, since he kept me captive for twenty-nine years."  
  
"True, but Cristoff let you live as a man. If you worked for Montressor," he sighed deeply, "You would only be a prop to him."  
  
"How do you know this? I was a prop to Cristoff."  
  
"Not as you would be to Montressor. I know this, because I know Montressor personally. And I am doing what I am doing for you so you will not have to find that out for yourself. I was a prisoner, too, for five years for crimes I did not commit. And so I do this for you, to free you from one prison and prevent you from ending up in another, far more worse."  
  
Dietrich went out later; Truman flipped channels on the cable TV. Every other station was carrying a news report about the grand escape. He finally shut it off.  
  
Dietrich came back with a sheaf of magazines and newspapers, including a few National Geographics. "I will bring by some World Almanacs in the morning, to help you catch up with current events and history," he promised.  
  
"Yeah, I know a plane went down in New York several months back. Did they ever find out why? The news said it was a mechanical failure, but I thought it sounded odd."  
  
"It was a terrorist attack by Muslim extremists based in Afghanistan. The planes were hijacked and crashed deliberately into the World Trade Center Towers."  
  
"Oh dear. I mean, that's awful, like Pearl Harbor."  
  
"It was worse than Pearl Harbor."  
  
"And they kept stuff like this from me. I mean, yeah, it's horrible, but it's the truth, dammit. I got a right to know about it."  
  
"That's why I'm doing this, so you can live in the truth. I know what it is to live a lie."  
  
Once Dietrich had gone for the night, Truman started reading the magazines and newspapers until his eyes grew too heavy to stay open and he switched out the light.  
  
He woke up a few times in the night, once to take care of nature, once to get a drink of water and once because he heard a car door slam. He peeked out the window all three times.  
  
All three times he saw the same black Cadillac parked outside, against the curb, on the other side of the street.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Earlier that evening, a medium-sized, stocky-built guy in a black leather coat entered the hospital where Sylvia had been treated. His round, ugly face had the odd knack of looking thin and rat-like at the same time. He approached the receptionist's desk.  
  
"Did you admit a girl named Sylvia Thomas earlier today?" he asked in a thin, sneery voice. "I'm her uncle Larry, I heard from my sister-in-law that Sylv was in an accident."  
  
"Yes, she was discharged this afternoon. Her injuries were not life-threatening," the receptionist replied.  
  
"Oh, phew! Be still my beating heart! Could you give me her address? I've been out of touch with her for a few years, and I don't have her current address."  
  
"Sure." The receptionist printed out Sylvia's forms and handed them to him."  
  
"Thanks," he said.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Cristoff lay on the bed in his apartment, unable to sleep, his eyes fixed to the monitor at the foot of the bed, which showed the open door in the backdrop. Where are you tonight, Truman? He wondered.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia had just taken a bath and gotten into her nightgown. She was brushing her teeth, when she heard a loud bang! in the front room. She spat into the sink, switched out the light and cracked the door.  
  
She heard people moving about in the room. A stocky guy in a black coat moved past the door. She pushed it closed. She opened the window and climbed out on the fire escape outside.  
  
"She ain't here, boss," said a man's high, whiny voice.  
  
"You haven't checked the bathroom," replied a deep, harsh but subtle voice.  
  
Someone kicked open the door. She huddled against the bricks of the wall. Don't look out the window, she thought. Don't look out the window, don't look out the window, don't look out the window…  
  
Someone opened the window. She froze.  
  
"Where are you, woman?" the gruff voice crooned. The window banged shut.  
  
A big, black car passed below some minutes later. She lay still until it had passed. She got up and tried to open the window. It was locked. She found a loose brick in the wall and smashed the window to unlock it.  
  
She picked her way over the broken glass and surveyed the rooms. She expected the place to be trashed, but not a thing was out of place.  
  
But a piece of black paper lay in the middle of her table.  
  
We'll be back, girl, it read in lavender ink.  
  
She dressed quickly. She couldn't stay here. She called Jerry.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Jerry slept wrapped in a sleeping bag, stretched out in the back of his Land Rover. Under his pillow lay two things vital to his work: his Luger and his cellphone.  
  
The phone rang. He stirred and pulled it out.  
  
"Hullo?"  
  
"Jerry, it's Sylvia."  
  
He jerked fully awake. "Are you all right?"  
  
"No, someone just broke into my apartment. They left a note saying they'd be back."  
  
"I'll be right over," he said, crawling out of the sleeping back and stuffing the Luger into his belt as he climbed into the front seat.  
  
She had thrown some clothes and necessities and things into a shopping bag when he arrived.  
  
"So where are you staying?" she asked as he drove back toward TLF headquarters.  
  
"Nowhere, I'm afraid. I just parked behind headquarters."  
  
"Well, I can't sleep in here with you."  
  
"You sleep in here; I'll sleep on the ground," he offered. "I'll be fine, it's a nice night."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Cristoff couldn't sleep. His mind still ran wild, thinking of Truman, alone out there in that world. What kind of lies are they handing you? he asked the darkness. The worst possible images panned over his mind's eye: a gang of thugs brutalizing him in an alleyway, predators molesting him, one image of Truman lying dead somewhere.  
  
Did I do wrong in protecting you from the world? Did I 'kill you with kindness as they've accused me of doing? One part of him wanted to resign itself to the reality: Truman had made his choice, and they both needed to live with the outcome. But another part of him wanted Truman back, if only to spare him the world and from Montressor.  
  
It won't be the same, something deep in his soul told him. He realized that even if he could get Truman back, everything could not possibly return to the status quo he and OmniCam and the EcoSphere crew had so carefully maintained. Truman would go made with the claustrophobic world of Seahaven. Once someone has seen the truth, no one, not even he, can make himself un-see it. It would remain indelibly imprinted on his consciousness, on his very being.  
  
He stared at the monitor screen. Per order of Moses Mayr, the studio exec, and one of the OmniCam bigwigs, the set was being torn down. But for as long as he could, Cristoff wanted them to leave the one camera focused on the last place he had seen Truman. Maybe he would see him stumble in through that door, the prodigal returned.  
  
Has Montressor's long arm reached for you yet? Has he cast you in some horrible role in some scenario unfit for even the lowest animal?  
  
The phone on the bedside table rang. Cristoff let the answering machine pick it up.  
  
"We haven't found your little bird yet, Cristoff. If you know where he is, why not make it a lot easier for all of us and tell us where he got to," Montressor's oily voice said. The line cut off.  
  
Cristoff breathed easier.  
  
* * * * *   
  
In the middle of the night, as he lay sleeping in his sleeping bag on the ground near the Land Rover, Jerry heard a heavy engine throbbing nearby. Headlights splashed over him but he lay still, keeping his eyes closed. Car doors opened. Footsteps approached. Someone came close to where he lay.  
  
"Yep, that's the Land Rover, and that's our girl sleeping in it," said a man's sneery voice. "We take her now, Montressor?"  
  
Silence except the engine noises replied, then a deep voice spoke.  
  
"No, not now, not now. We have a witness."  
  
"Who?" Sneer asked.  
  
"Look on the ground."  
  
"Aaaw, wookit sleepin' beauty."  
  
"Particularly the beauty part. He's as cunning as he's pretty. He was watching us under his lashes. Hand me the bull's-eye light."  
  
Jerry felt more light, brighter than the headlights, on his face. He lay still, but it took an act of the will to keep his face from squinching.  
  
"You're tougher than you look, little fella," Deep Oily remarked.  
  
"If he's a witness, shouldn't we do 'm?" Sneer asked.  
  
"No, something like him you don't smash unless he's used up. He's got a lot of life in him, this one."  
  
The footsteps retreated. The doors slammed. The tires screamed past, just a foot from where Jerry lay.  
  
When the trespassers screeched away into the distance, Jerry crawled under the Land Rover.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Early the next morning, Truman woke up. Dietrich hadn't come back yet; he went into the bathroom to shave.  
  
"So, Mr. Burbank, does the real world appeal to you?" he said into the mirror, doing a pretend interview.  
  
"Well, so far, Phil, so good. I must admit the welcoming party in the black leather coats and the Caddy was a bit terrifying, but if that's the way you do things around here, I can get used to it. 'Man gets used to anything, the beast'." He said the last in a lugubrious drawl.  
  
"What do you plan to do with your life?"  
  
"Right now, I'm trying to find Sylvia Garland, or whatever her last name is. After that, I'll figure something out for work. There's gotta be decent jobs out here."  
  
"But what about Meryl? I mean, she was your wife. Why not try getting her out into this world?"  
  
"Why should I? Now that I'm in my right mind, she appears every bit as fake to me as that world I just escaped. I mean, how many people really have chirpy conversations about Bolivian Cocoa beans?"  
  
At this point someone knocked on the hall door. Truman went to check who it was. Dietrich stood there, waiting to be let in. Truman opened the door to him.  
  
"Pack up your thingks, vee are gettingk oudt," Dietrich said, his accent heavier than usual. He threw a suitcase on the bed. Truman saw a holster strapped to the bigger man's thigh, under the lappet of his coat.  
  
"What's up?"  
  
"Ziss," Dietrich drew a folded newspaper from under his coat and threw it on the table. Truman looked at the headline.  
  
TRUMAN SPOTTED! blared the headline. Underneath was a photo of Truman and Dietrich entering the office of the Motel 6.  
  
"Uh oh," Truman said.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Three minutes later they checked out. Dietrich made Truman get into the back of his sedan, lie down on the floor, and threw his coat over him.  
  
He stayed still in that cramped position until the car stopped moving in half-light. The rear door opened and Dietrich helped him out, into a garage.  
  
"A door leads to the kitchen, you won't have to go outside," Dietrich said, leading the way down a short hallway, then through a door into a spare, but well-lit kitchen.  
  
He cooked breakfast for the both of them; he wasn't bad for someone who was clearly a bachelor. No curtains on the windows, just vertical blinds, that was how Truman could tell.  
  
"So, Dietrich, what about you?" Truman asked afterward.  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"Well, who are you? Where did you come from?"  
  
Dietrich smiled mysteriously, the corners of his mouth barely lifted. "It is best for all if you know little about me."  
  
"Why not? You got some secret past you're hiding from the world?"  
  
Dietrich wagged his head. "Perhaps there exists a part of me that wishes to keep it from myself even."  
  
"Oh, c'mon, you can tell me. I'd like to know a little about the guy who's keeping me away form my enemies."  
  
"There is little worth telling. I immerse myself in my cases, my work. It is more than a livelihood for me: it is my service, my way to reclaim the ground my youth has lost. I wanted to enter the police force, but they could not take me, since I carry more than my share of woes."  
  
"You got a wife? A girlfriend?"  
  
Dietrich laughed humorlessly. "I am afraid not. I am homosexual."  
  
Truman tried not to stare. He'd dimly heard about such things, mostly horror stories. He caught himself backing away from Dietrich, scooting back in his chair until he bunched up in a corner. Don't show fear, he told himself.  
  
"You have nothing to fear, Truman. I know what you need." As Dietrich said this, his hand went to his shirt pocket, where he'd put the picture of Sylvia.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich showed him the rest of the house. "I barely use the upstairs, so you can have it to yourself, but feel free to roam. Just stay away from windows."  
  
Once Truman had settle, Dietrich left him. He investigated the bookshelves in the living room and the desktop computer in a windowless office nook in the back of the house. He found a program called Internet Explorer and opened it.  
  
A window opened and spread itself over the screen. He'd read about "the Web" in one of the books Dietrich had left with him, so he wanted to investigate it.  
  
There seemed to be an awful lot of news items about his disappearance. OmniCam had put out a reward of $750,00 for his safe return to the EcoSphere, but this Montressor dude had a reward of his own: $1,000,000.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich stepped into the garage, took out his cellphone and dialed his contact.  
  
"Hullo?"  
  
"Peik, this is Hohenzoller. I've found him."  
  
"Is he alive?"  
  
"Yes, pass the word to the others."  
  
"Shall we bring him to the Chief?"  
  
"No, not yet. The smoke has to settle, plus I have something else to clear away."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Truman found a White Pages online and typed "Garland, Sylvia" into the search box. He hit enter and waited.  
  
A page came up with a name and an address. He printed it out as Dietrich came back to the room.  
  
"I might have found her," Truman announced, handing him the paper.  
  
Dietrich scanned it in silence. "I could call her for you, perhaps arrange for her to come here. It's not safe for you to go out.  
  
"I'd appreciate that."  
  
Dietrich reached for the phone on the desk and dialed. He waited several seconds  
  
"Hallo, is there a Sylvia Garland there? This is Dietrich Hohenzoller, private investigator. Did you, by any chance, play the part of Lauren on the Truman Show about ten years ago?…No? Very well, I'm sorry to disturb you. Goodbye." He hung up.  
  
"Wrong person?" Truman asked.  
  
"I'm afraid so."  
  
"Well, we can't say we didn't try."  
  
Dietrich bent his head, his eyes thoughtful. "There is another way. I have a friend who worked on The Show about ten years ago. Perhaps he would know about her."  
  
"And hope he's kept up with what's going on."  
  
"Oh, he's kept up with it." Dietrich lifted the receiver again.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Jerry was washing his hands in the sink of the unisex bathroom of TLF headquarters when his cellphone rang.  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Peik, it's Hohenzoller again. I don't mean to bother you again, but could I ask you something?"  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Do you know a Sylvia Garland who played Lauren on The Show ten years ago?"  
  
"Not in real life, but I know a Sylvia Thomas."  
  
"Could you bring her to my house?"  
  
"It might be safer if you came here and picked her up; her apartment got broken into, so she came here to find shelter; but then last night, when she was sleeping in my truck and I was sleeping on the ground, these thugs came by and were peeking at her. They ended up more interested in me, if you know what I mean."  
  
"Did you see them? Could you describe them?"  
  
"No, I was playing possum."  
  
"I will come by later, then and fetch her here. Truman wants to see her."  
  
"Okay, well, I'll give her the fair warning and tell her you called looking for her."  
  
Jerry hung up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. He leaned his hands in the sink ledge and breathed deeply, trying to regain his composure so he could pass the message on to her.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"Truman?" Dietrich's rich voice called from the kitchen, later that evening.  
  
"Yeah?" Truman called back.  
  
"Come down here. There is something for you."  
  
Truman got off-line and went to the kitchen. Is this another false alarm? He wondered.  
  
He walked into the kitchen. A woman sat at the table.  
  
Lauren…?  
  
No! Sylvia!  
  
Golden-brown hair, blue-green eyes, delightfully uneven brows, face slightly heart-shaped.  
  
"Lauren?" Truman asked, dry mouthed from nerves.  
  
She smiled, tears in her eyes. "No, it's Sylvia," she said. She stood up. He opened his arms awkwardly, but she walked into his embrace.  
  
Dietrich, standing in the doorway to the garage, watched them for a moment. Then he turned and went out on some fictitious errand. They have some catching up to do, he told himself.  
  
  
  
To be continued… 


	3. The Tender Reunion

+J.M.J.+  
  
The Truman Show: Through the Door in the Sky  
  
  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
  
  
  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I'd better give you a fair warning: this chapter contains some slightly icky   
  
stuff. I didn't realize Montressor was such a creep; I knew he was crooked and   
  
unprincipled, but I didn't know it extended to the stuff he does here. But I did   
  
everything in my power to keep this and subsequent chapters within a PG-13   
  
rating. If some of the details are a little off, I have to admit here that it's   
  
been a while since I saw the movie (although I have seen it twice), and I've   
  
been using the Newmarket Press published version of the shooting script as a   
  
reference.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I.  
  
  
  
But first, the imitation movie credits; I wish, I wish…  
  
  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
Featuring   
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
  
  
And Themselves  
  
  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
  
  
Chapter III: The Tender Reunion  
  
  
  
  
  
Truman and Sylvia separated after a little while, still holding each other loosely.  
  
"Do you still love me?" she asked, looking up into his face.  
  
"I guess…I mean, I do. I do. You're the reason I left…all that behind me. Only you were real. Do you still love me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He wanted to kiss her, but he wasn't sure if he should. But he realized he had no reason not to kiss her. He gently took her face in both his hands and pressed his lips to hers. He felt her mouth trembling under his. He released her, not wanting to be too hard. She clung to him and pulled her face from his as she leaned her cheek on his shoulder.  
  
"What led you to get involved with all that, and what made you tell me the truth?" he asked her at length, when they had let each other go.  
  
"I was a kid. I wanted to be an actress. My dad knew people who knew people who could get me a bit part in the 'greatest show on television'." She made quotation marks with her fingers around "greatest show". "So I got on, in a small part, a regular girl named Lauren."  
  
"And then what?'  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Well, you know my end of the story probably better than I do, but I don't know yours."  
  
She blushed. "I met the leading man and I loved him."  
  
"You mean fell in love."  
  
"No, that came later. I mean, I looked at you and I thought, 'He's a nice, funny, lovable guy who has a lot going for him, why does he have to be cooped up in this mock-up of Small-town USA where he's just being used by the producers and directors and everything'. Not that small towns are bad, don't get me wrong; I spent my summers growing up, in the little town where my grandmother lived, near San Luis Obispo. But the real thing is better, because it is real."  
  
"So when did you fall in love with me?"  
  
"I can't name a day. It's like it just grew out of the first love."  
  
"So what happened to you after you…got kicked off the show for squealing to me?"  
  
"Cristoff, the man who directed it all, reprimanded me, but that's putting it mildly. He just about took me over his knee and spanked me. I wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't told the press that I was to blame for the incident, that I was a go-getter with a political agenda."  
  
"Which you weren't, of course."  
  
"No, I was just a young girl, maybe a little wise beyond my years."  
  
"That's terrible, you getting treated so bad, I mean."  
  
"Yeah, it ended my acting career. If you had 'a part on The Truman Show' on your resume, doors would open for you and you had it made in Hollywood. That didn't happen for me. I've worked a lot of nothing doing jobs over the years. Then about five years ago, I got involved with the TLF."  
  
"The what, what, what?"  
  
"The Truman Liberation Front. They worked to free you, to have the show pulled from the network because they exploited you. None of that was spin to me. I worked by their rules: I handed out flyers, took part in rallies, passed out petitions, worked as an office gofer for awhile. I guess I put on an act of sorts. I didn't let on to anyone why I worked as hard as I did. I wrote letters to the network president. One night I even called up Cristoff on that stupid talk show they ran at night while you were sleeping."  
  
"Did you return the favor?"  
  
She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I'm afraid I did. I blew up at him and I wound up blowing my cover. I got too aggressive with him."  
  
"But your work still paid off. I guess you never dreamed I'd just walk out on my own two feet,"  
  
"I'm proud of you for it. You were a real man about it.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia cooked dinner for them from the odds and ends she found in the cupboards and refrigerator. They prevailed upon Dietrich to join them for dinner.  
  
"I made plenty," she said.  
  
"Besides, we gotta show some gratitude toward the guy who brought us back together after ten years," Truman said.  
  
He gave in, but he later left them alone together; they sat in the living room talking about everything till they both dozed off beside each other on the couch.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich stayed outside, sitting on the wall under the front windows, smoking his pipe, watching the shadows on the shades. They needed their space, their privacy. They had a lot of catching up to do.  
  
A motor roared nearby. He looked up. Just as he started to drop behind the wall, a black Cadillac roared up the street and screeched to a stop before the house.  
  
Two big men in black jackets got out of the back and approached him.  
  
"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Dietrich asked, casually.  
  
"You Dietrich Hohenzoller?" one of them asked.  
  
"I am."  
  
The second man drew a semi-automatic from inside his jacket. "You're coming with us," he said. "Mr. Montressor wants to speak with you."  
  
They escorted him to the car and shoved him into the back seat. They got in beside him, one on either side. Someone in the front seat shoved the muzzle of a sawn-off shotgun at his face from over the top of a divider.  
  
He couldn't tell where they went; the windows had been blacked out. But his sense of direction helped him follow the turns of their path; he deduced they ended up at the Burbank Ritz-Carlton Hotel.  
  
His guides threw a coat over his head as they bundled him out of the car and into a building. He guessed they brought him up by a service elevator.  
  
They led him through a door someone opened to them. Only then did his guides take the coat from his head.  
  
He stood in a room with mahogany-dark walls. Black leather and ebony furniture stood arranged on a black and white chessboard pattern carpet.  
  
At the head of the room, in a wide armchair on a small dais sat a small man in a maroon damask dressing gown. He might have been twenty or he might have been seventy; a tuft of white over one eye marred the rich black of his dense hair. The white extended to the skin below, down his high, swarthy forehead to a patch around his right eye, leaving the iris albino red, contrasted with the left, which retained its normal black color. A patch of white skin showed on the back of his left hand, but the other retained his natural swarthiness.  
  
"So, Dietrich, we're sheltering little whelps now," the small man drawled in a gruff but urbane voice. "How long have you been going the charity route?"  
  
"Since I was released from prison five years ago," Dietrich replied.  
  
"And what has it gotten you? How much has it cost you?"  
  
"I choose not to count the cost, as you call it."  
  
The weird creature smiled indulgently. "So, on top of putting on a halo, we've added wings; I hope they can bear you up. You've run to fat the way I always knew you would. Trying to hide your past behind a kindly exterior?"  
  
"I would not call it kindly. As for my actions, I am only doing reparation for my past failings."  
  
Montressor chuckled richly. "You've gone from one extreme to the other: from Adonis to a frump, from snuff film samurai to a saintly soul-saver. If you ever write your memoirs, you could call it just that."  
  
"I'm not doing this for honor; it do it for what it is."  
  
"Are you enjoying it?"  
  
"I cannot deny that it brings joy to my heart."  
  
"I didn't mean that, I mean you must enjoy the company of Cristoff's little curio."  
  
"He is a good young man."  
  
Montressor ran the tip of his tongue over his thin lips. "I would imagine his company must be delicious. Naivety adds a piquant spice you can't find anywhere else."  
  
"I have also helped him to find his lost love." Dietrich took from his breast pocket the pieced-together photo of Sylvia.  
  
Montressor's hand whipped out and snatched the picture from Dietrich's hand. He held it for a moment in the tips of his talon-like fingernails. Then his hand twitched and he crumpled it. He tossed it to the floor. Dietrich bent to pick it up.  
  
Montressor pounced on him, clasping the big man's neck between his thighs. He leaned over and looked at Dietrich's face upside down, his hands gripping the larger man's lower face.  
  
"Not as swift as we once were, now that we're carrying the extra baggage, eh? I suppose you find her just as delightful."  
  
"There is nothing in this for me; I'm not the man you knew."  
  
"You certainly aren't." Montressor's hands tightened, the nails biting into Dietrich's skin. He leaned his face closer, until Dietrich could smell Montressor's rank breath fanning his face.  
  
"You will bring him to me. You always obeyed me."  
  
"And if I do not?"  
  
Montressor's fingernails dug in harder until Dietrich nearly gasped from the pain.  
  
"You may not live to regret it." Montressor released him and swung down from his neck.  
  
The two men in black entered the room again. "Take him back," Montressor ordered, turning his back to Dietrich.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia awoke hearing the back door close. She and Truman lay nestled together chastely on the couch, like two puppies or two children. She got up carefully, so as not to awaken Truman and went to the kitchen.  
  
Dietrich leaned over the sink, his shirt off, his suspenders slipped down to his hips, washing his face in the sink. A runnel of blood had jelled on his chin and marks like fingernail scratches showed on the skin of his cheeks.  
  
"Dietrich, what happened to you? Where were you?"  
  
"I had an unexpected appointment," he said.  
  
"What happened to your face?"  
  
"Someone scratched it."  
  
"Who?"  
  
Dietrich looked toward the living room. "Is Truman awake?"  
  
"No, not when I left him."  
  
Dietrich breathed deeply, his hands on the edge of the sink. "Sylvia, there are a few things you need to know about me." He stopped, looking away."  
  
"You can tell me."  
  
"You know the director who wants Truman?"  
  
"That Montressor guy?"  
  
Dietrich gripped the sink ledge until the tendons bulged on his thick fingers. "When I was younger, I worked for him. I acted in his films."  
  
She looked at him. He looked rugged, and world-weariness showed in his eyes and the flecks of gray showing in his golden hair. But how could he…?  
  
He looked at her. "Still rivers run deep."  
  
"And he's trying to get at Truman through you?"  
  
"I would put much emphasis on trying," he said, reassuringly.  
  
"Is that why you're helping Truman?"  
  
"It could be."  
  
"Why do I have a feeling there's much more to this than the little you're telling me?"  
  
Dietrich untucked his undershirt in the back. "I mean not to shock you by this, and it is best that Truman knows as little about this and about me as possible for now, not until he has adjusted to this world."  
  
He pulled the back of his undershirt up to the nape of his neck and turned his back to her.  
  
The whole of his broad back lay exposed, the skin covered with a network of scars and discolorations like old burns.  
  
"What…How…who did this to you?" she cried.  
  
Dietrich smoothed down his undershirt and reached for his shirt. "Montressor did this."  
  
* * * * *   
  
With Sylvia at his heels, Dietrich carried Truman up to the spare room and laid him on the bed. Sylvia loosened his collar and take off his shoes before she tugged the covers over him and leaned down to kiss him chastely.  
  
"Do you need a ride back home?" Dietrich asked as they stood out in the hallway a minute later.  
  
"No, I'm staying here."  
  
"You can have my bed. My room is across the hall."  
  
"Where will you sleep?"  
  
"There's no sleep for me tonight." He headed downstairs.  
  
She got some pillows and blanket from Dietrich's room and made up a bed for herself on the floor of Truman's room. She didn't dare sleep beside him on the bed. All the old feelings had churned up and she didn't trust herself with him.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich sat awake on the couch, watching the living room windows for movement, harmless or hostile. He doubted Montressor's henchmen would come back, but Montressor could change his mind. He could turn as fickle as he was cruel. They could come back and storm the house, or the night could pass without further incident. But his hands rested on the Schmeisser in his lap. Several ammunition rounds weighted his pockets, if needed.  
  
Toward dawn, he dozed, but later he heard someone—Sylvia— come into the kitchen and set about making breakfast.  
  
He shook the sleep from his head and set aside the rifle. He stretched his cramped body and got up. He went out to the kitchen.  
  
"Did you sleep at all?" she asked gently.  
  
"I got what nature needs; I trained myself to need little sleep. I'd better call Peik and Tenniel." He reached into his pocket for the cellphone.  
  
She glanced at the phone on the counter. "Anything wrong with this?"  
  
The phone rang. She reached for it, but he caught her arm gently but firmly. The answering machine picked it up.  
  
"Remember what I said, Amon Tesch, it's either you or the little fellow," said a deep, suave voice. "I have other pairs of eyes."  
  
The answering machine cut out.  
  
"Was that…?"  
  
"Montressor. As soon as he found out it was me, I started suspecting he has a tap on the phone. Which requires me to call on this." He held up the cellphone.  
  
"Wait. Who's Amon Tesch?" she asked.  
  
Dietrich breathed deeply. "That was my name when I worked for Montressor. I changed it to Dietrich Hohenzoller when I was released from prison."  
  
"Why were you in prison?"  
  
"Now is not the time to say."  
  
He dialed the cellphone and waited. "Hello, Peik? Yes, it's Dietrich…Could you get Tenniel on? This is urgent…Hello, Cole? Yes, its Dietrich Hohenzoller…Security has been breached. Montressor knows Truman is here, at my house. I'll have to bring him up today…No, do not do that, under no circumstances. It will look obvious. We shall be there as soon as possible…you're welcome." He hung up.  
  
Truman came in at this point, whistling to himself.  
  
"Good morning. What adventures did I miss?"  
  
Sylvia looked from Dietrich to Truman and back again. "How do we break it to him?"  
  
Dietrich came up to Truman. "We have to get you out of here soon. Montressor knows you're here"  
  
"Man, this guy doesn't quit. How's he doing this?"  
  
"He has his spies. We're going to get you out of their way."  
  
"I guess I better go pack," Truman said, turning back. "I thought I'd finished running for a while."  
  
Sylvia made coffee and toast, which she served with honey and fruit. Dietrich contented himself with a couple cups of coffee which he drank standing up, discreetly watching the window.  
  
They went out to the garage. Dietrich had Truman lie down on the floor of the backseat. Sylvia sat up front with Dietrich.  
  
They took a while driving. Truman got tired from lying in such a cramped position.  
  
"Isn't it about time for the guys in the black Caddy to start chasing us?" he asked.  
  
"That's why he's taking the long route," Sylvia said.  
  
"Well, would it be too much trouble if you took the short version of the long route?" Truman asked. "I'm getting a crink in my back from lying on the hump in the floor."  
  
"We're almost there," Dietrich said.  
  
The car slowed down as they pulled into what Truman guessed was a parking lot. The engine cut out and Dietrich and Sylvia climbed out.  
  
Sylvia opened the rear door and helped Truman out. They stood near the loading dock of a factory building. Sylvia led them inside and up a metal stairway.  
  
She opened a door at the head of the stairs. "I'll go in first and give then the fair warning, so they won't go too hoopy. We have a lot of jokers in this group," she said. She went in and closed the door behind her.  
  
"I could put up with a few jokers now," Truman said. "This is getting way too serious."  
  
"It will get better," Dietrich said.  
  
Sylvia came out to them and let Truman enter first.  
  
He stepped into a large room that looked like a cross between an office and a rec room. The walls were crusted with photographs and banners. Some dusty party decorations and faded crepe streamers hung festooned from the ceiling.  
  
A crowd of people of all ages, mostly not much older than he, encircled them as they entered; some wore TLF tee shirts, but most wore "Free Truman NOW!!!" buttons pinned to regular blouses and shirts. They all started chattering and cheering at once, greeting Truman. Some reached out to shake his hand and clap him on the back. One young girl in a mock simpery voice said, "Oh Truman, you're even better for real than you look on TV! Could I have your autograph? Would you tattoo it on my arm please? Please? Please?"  
  
The young men surrounded him and lifted him up on their shoulders. The crowd cheered and started singing a rowdy rendition of "For He's a Jolly good Fellow" counterpointed with "76 Trombones" and "Stars and Stripes Forever" as they paraded him around the room.  
  
Finally, they set his feet back on the floor.  
  
A tall, well-built man in his fifties with thinning red hair emerged from a back office and made his way through the crowd, accompanied by a sturdy woman with dark skin, and a slender young man with tousled black hair and brilliant green eyes.  
  
"Settle down, everyone, settle down. Don't overwhelm the poor fellow; he's only been in the real world for two days now," the tall man said.  
  
He turned to Truman and said, "My name's Cole Tenniel; I'm the president of the TLF."  
  
Truman took Tenniel's hand. "Uh, pleased to meet you. I hope I didn't spoil your cause the way I escaped.'  
  
"Not at all; I had hoped you'd get out of the EcoSphere on your own power. It would be the more manly thing to do."  
  
"From my understanding, there's still folks who'd rather have me back in there."  
  
"That's why we're here. Our goal was not just to free you and leave you adrift in your new life. However, we've had some unfortunate variables thrown into the mix."  
  
"Yeah, nothing like a monkey wrench thrown into the mix," someone at the back of the crowd said.  
  
"You mean, like Montressor chasing me around?"  
  
"Don't say that name!" someone cried in the crowd. Some of the women, including Sylvia, pretended to faint.   
  
"Death to the demon, Azor Montressor!" the dark young man at Tenniel's elbow cried, waving on fist in the air   
  
"In which case, we'll have to move you again. 'He Who Must Not be Named', better known as 'HE' knows you may already be here, so we'll have to move you to a safe house, in the hills, far from the city."  
  
"As long as it gets me out of HIS way. I'm kinda getting used to this moving around and hiding stuff. Is this part of regular life?" Truman asked, trying to sound shallow.  
  
"Most people have much duller lives," Tenniel said.  
  
"And you haven't exactly had a normal life, up to this point," the dark woman said and held her hand out to Truman. "My name's Bettina Sarkist. Why don't you come back here into the office and out of the crush?"  
  
"Sure, thanks."  
  
Behind them, Tenniel started giving orders.  
  
"We aren't disbanding yet, people, but it's a good idea if you collect some of your personal belongings before you go out. No streaming out like lemming, though; go out in ones and twos. You of the core group, stand by for further orders.  
  
Bettina pushed the door closed. The dark young man had joined them; he wore a baggy gray shirt-jacket over a close-fitting white jersey and khaki pants.  
  
"You want anything, Truman?" Bettina asked. "Coffee? Fruit juice? Water? They're gonna be a while out there, sorting out."  
  
"Oh. I'll have some fruit juice, please," Truman replied.  
  
"Okay, I'll be back."  
  
"If you don't get shanghaied into twenty other errands," the dark young man called after her as she went out.  
  
Truman sat down on an office chair. He looked up at the young man who stood nearby. "Uh, I don't think we've met."  
  
"I'm Jerry, Jerry Peik. Actually it's Jerome, but I hate being called that. Sounds too old."  
  
"So what are you doing in here?"  
  
"It's not official yet, but I'm supposed to be your bodyguard." He lifted the skirt of his shirt jacket, showing a handgun tucked into his waistband.  
  
"Oh boy, is that real?"  
  
"Yeah, I just hope I never have to use it," Jerry replied in a lower voice.  
  
"So, who's Tenniel and what's with this organization?"  
  
"Okay, I'll try to give you the breadbox version." Jerry propped on foot on the seat of a straight-backed chair and leaned over it. "Tenniel is-was an advertising exec—still is to some extent. He used to run the little inset commercials on The Show, or at least he did until one of the OmniCam big shots took him on a discreet tour of the EcoSphere. When he saw how real your former little world seemed, he was shocked. So he pulled out of OmniCam. He did other commercials for other networks, but he couldn't stop thinking about you. So, about fifteen years ago, he started an organization he called the "Free Truman Organization. That fused with another group called Truth in Media, and they've been trying to get you out ever since. You'll have to ask him for the full version, it's more interesting than that."  
  
"So they know what I've been up to my neck in?"  
  
"Better than you know it. Over the years, there've been a few nut cases, besides Montressor, who tried to drag you out of the EcoSphere bodily, but they had nothing to do with us. Tenniel wouldn't stand for that kinda junk. Not good advertising. But, like we've said, you just made all that unnecessary."  
  
"And I thought I was just escaping from a prison I didn't even know I'd been in. World's a much bigger place than I ever expected."  
  
"It's really a very dull place, more often than not. It's just that you've had it different from the rest of us, the way your life has run up to this point—or been run for you, rather."  
  
"I sure hope all this dies down. Part of me is starting to wish I hadn't gone to all this trouble of escaping, if it's gonna cause this much of a rumpus."  
  
Jerry leaned close to Truman. "Hey, you put your hand to the plow. Don't look back, fella, 'cause there ain't no going back. It's either our way to freedom, or back to OmniCam and into Montressor's clutches.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Back at the EcoSphere, Cristoff added a few drops of whisky to his coffee—black. He gazed at the monitor as he drank. The lights had dimmed, but the door still stood open. A few workmen had tried to close it, but he'd got on the PA and shouted them away from it.  
  
The intercom buzzed. He reached for it and answered it.  
  
"Montressor, dammit, I told you I can't talk to you now, and I don't—"  
  
"Cristoff, Walter Moore needs to speak to you," the guard said.  
  
"All right, send him up."  
  
A minute later, the door opened and a middle-sized man with graying brown hair entered the room.  
  
"Walter, I'm sorry about recent events. I thought bringing your character back would make him want to stay—" Cristoff started.  
  
Walter held up a hand. "Cris, this isn't about the show; this about Truman. I think he may be my son."  
  
Cristoff studied Walter's face. At first he wondered if Walter had come unhinged in light of what had happened, but then he realized something else. His face had always looked better than Truman's goofy good looks, but the faint resemblances showed, most notably their hair, which, for Walter, had been the despair of the hair stylists. The casting directors had chosen Walter for his looks, based on an age progressed photo of the child in utero who would become Truman at birth.  
  
"How is this possible?"  
  
Walter looked over Cristoff's shoulder, a little embarrassed. "Well, I uh, let's just say I had been involved with one of the five women whose unborn kids you had considered adopting for the show. She called me last night and told me I might be Truman's real father."  
  
"So why did you come back?"  
  
"I just want to know if you have any idea where Truman is."  
  
"If you want to know that, go ask Montressor. He seems to have a better idea where he is."  
  
Walter's face paled. "Montressor…you mean that Montressor?  
  
"There's only one Azor Montressor in television."  
  
Walter drew in a long breath. "I don't know as if I want to go to someone who makes that kind of stuff."  
  
Cristoff thought a moment. "The Truman Liberation Front. They're up on Grovedale Ave., above a box factory. They might be able to help."  
  
"Thanks, Cris, you don't know what this means to me."  
  
"You're welcome."  
  
Once Walter had gone, Cristoff reached for the phone, intending to call the TLF. But his eye fell first on the monitor, then on the gun on the end table.  
  
* * * * *   
  
An hour after Dietrich left with Truman and Sylvia, a black Cadillac pulled up into the driveway of his house.  
  
Three men in black leather jackets got out, the shortest leading the way, the other two flanking a fourth man, even shorter than the first.  
  
The taller goons broke down the front door. They penetrated the house and groped around the rooms.  
  
"No sign of 'm, sir," the short, rat-faced dweeb said. "We shoulda swiped 'm last night."  
  
"Sweyk, you never understood the meaning and, more importantly, the necessity of timing," the shortest man said. He took a long pull on his cigarette. A long moment later, he let the smoke out between his lips and re-inhaled it through his nostrils. "Last night was too soon, much too soon."  
  
They ranged about upstairs. They found the room Truman had occupied.  
  
"He slept here," the boss said. He ran his piebald hand over the mattress. "Yes, he slept here, in innocent unconcern. Well, I hope he enjoyed it."  
  
He took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it onto the unmade bed.  
  
"Burning his bridges for him, eh?" Sweyk sniggered.  
  
They left just as the sheets started to smolder.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"I hope that didn't take too long," Bettina said, closing the door behind her. "The phone was ringing and no one would answer it."  
  
"Was it for me?" Truman asked as she handed him his drink. "Thanks."  
  
"No, it was one of our regular supporters, wanted to know if we were disbanding."  
  
"Are you gonna disband? It's not like I'm gonna need help for much longer."  
  
"Not until you've settled," Bettina said, sitting on the edge of a desk. "We're not gonna leave you high and dry, not with that lunatic Montressor watching the town for you. We're not gonna abandon you now."  
  
"Any news?"  
  
"Yeah, OmniCam is considering letting Montressor borrow you for a while, see how well his batbrained idea holds up."  
  
"So of course they must be stepping up the search for Truman," Jerry said.  
  
"Their cash reward for finding Truman is up to one and a half million dollars."  
  
"Sweet. I could pay off some debts with that," Jerry said, whistling.  
  
"Quit that, Jerry, whose side are you on?" She turned to Truman. "Watch out for Jerry, Truman, he's a real joker."  
  
"Aw, I knew he was kidding; I can take a joke. It's just other people that can't take mine."  
  
The door opened and Tenniel came in. "We just sent Dietrich and Sylvia out as a decoy. We'll give them a head start of a few minutes, then we'll go."  
  
"Any more lying in back seats?" Truman asked.  
  
"I'll bury you under the stuff in the back of my Land Rover," Jerry offered.  
  
"Maybe in that case you should go rearrange it?" Bettina suggested.  
  
"Good idea," Jerry said. He went out.  
  
"He's as bats as me," Truman said.  
  
"He only pretends to be," Tenniel said. "That fellow has reflexes like a cat's, which is why I assigned him to be your bodyguard." He looked at his watch. "It's been long enough."  
  
They went down to the loading dock. Jerry had pulled up a battered gray Land Rover and had pulled out several boxes and bags from the back.  
  
"At least Sylvia left her stuff, that'll give you more cover," Jerry said, crawling out of the back.  
  
"How'd the night with her go?" Bettina asked, deadpan.  
  
Jerry grinned viciously. "Oh, what a night! Hope you don't get too jealous, Truman. No, seriously, she slept inside the Land Rover, and I slept on the ground outside. Some thugs passed by, but they took one look at me and fled."  
  
"I would think so, you're pretty terrifying to look at," Truman said, grinning.  
  
"I tougher than I look," Jerry said, flexing one arm. Truman couldn't see much difference.  
  
"Oh, an iron boy."  
  
Jerry backed out of the cargo bay and climbed down. "Get in, your highness."  
  
Truman climbed in and lay down on the floor. As an added touch, he crossed his arms over his chest mummy-fashion. Jerry draped a towel over his head and covered him with shopping bags of stuff. He stuck boxes in next to him to camouflage him.  
  
Truman heard the doors slam. "Can you breathe back there, Truman?" Bettina asked.  
  
"I'll manage," Truman said, muffled.  
  
Fortunately, he lay in a much more comfortable position, so as trip wore on, Truman let himself doze and slowly fall into comfortable, if slightly smothered slumber.  
  
After a while, he felt the stuff on top of him move away. He twitched awake and sat up.  
  
Jerry grabbed him by the ankles and hauled out him bodily, dumping him on the ground none too gently, but with a playful twinkle in his eye.  
  
Truman picked himself up and dusted himself off.  
  
He stood in the circular drive of a country cottage, shaded by spreading trees. Sylvia and Dietrich waited on the porch, Sylvia sitting clasping her knees, Dietrich standing guard. She jumped up and ran down to meet Truman. They hugged as if they hadn't seen each other in years.  
  
"That was too long to be away from you," Truman said, holding her face.  
  
"I was afraid you wouldn't make it," she admitted, clasping her hands behind his head.  
  
"Yeah, you don't know when the goons in the Caddy might come out of the woodwork. But we're together now, till the next time we have to move again."  
  
He leaned down and kissed. Dietrich smiled on them like an indulgent father; Jerry let out a loud gagging sound like an eleven-year-old kid seeing his sister kissing her boyfriend.  
  
Truman and Sylvia broke apart; Sylvia's cheeks glowed pinker than before.  
  
Tenniel stepped up onto the porch and unlocked the door. He let the others enter first.  
  
The air inside the cottage smelled a little stale from disuse, but they opened the windows to let in the cool spring breeze.  
  
"This really isn't my house; it's on permanent loan from one of our wealthier supporters," Tenniel explained. "But what's mine is yours."  
  
He led them upstairs to a small, snug bedroom close to the head of the stairs. He opened the door for them and went in to open the window."  
  
"If you like, this can be your room, the two of you can share it," Tenniel offered.  
  
Sylvia looked from Tenniel to Truman to the one bed in the room. "No, I couldn't. It wouldn't be right."  
  
"What about last night? We fell asleep together."  
  
"That was just falling asleep together."  
  
"We don't have to, like, do anything, not if you don't want to."  
  
She took his hand in hers. "That's just it: I do want to, but now isn't the right time. Not till we're married. If we did anything like sharing the same bed, I don't think I could hold myself back."  
  
"Hey, you can have the bed, Sylv, I'll sleep on the floor," Truman cut in.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I hope I didn't offend either of you," Tenniel said. "Not everyone has the same standards."  
  
"It's all right: I've had worse stuff tried on me," Sylvia said.  
  
"All right, I'm putting Peik and Hohenzoller in the room across the hallway. They'll be alternating guard duty shifts, six hours each. A few of the men from the TLF will be up here shortly to patrol the grounds discreetly. But you two just settle in and don't worry about all this: that's my job. You two just work on getting to know each other."  
  
Tenniel went downstairs. Sylvia helped Truman unpack their bags.  
  
"I don't think we could do anything too indiscreet anyway," Truman said, glancing out the door. "Not with guys guarding us. I hope I didn't sound too dumb back there."  
  
"No, we're just different people with different upbringings and we both just need to adjust to our differences."  
  
"The more I think about it, the more I like your standards better. You got guts if you stayed faithful to me, y' know, for this long."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I imagine it wasn't easy. I, uh, hope I wasn't the first guy to, y' know, make a misstep around you."  
  
"It's okay, I've had a lot guys try to pick me up over the years and even more guys try to start relationships with me, it wasn't easy, but it's been worth it."  
  
"So I'm the only guy you've ever liked?"  
  
"You're the only one I really loved."  
  
"Wow. That's really something."  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
"Oh, Marlon, my best friend—if you could call him a friend and if that was his real name—used to say women didn't know the meaning of being faithful. Not that he was an expert at it, er…"  
  
"Yeah, that sounds like Lou Coltrane."  
  
"That's his real name?"  
  
"Yeah. He played the part good because he literally was Marlon. They modeled the character on him as a person."  
  
"You didn't like him?"  
  
"I didn't hate him, but I didn't like being around him. He had more than a bit a of a roving eye."  
  
"He wasn't a bad sort, but I can see why you wouldn't like him…He wouldn't lie to me."  
  
"What?"  
  
"One of the last things he said to me before I escaped was that he wouldn't lie to me. Well, that whole thing was one big lie."  
  
"We weren't. What we started was real."  
  
He took her wrists in both his hands. "What we have is real."  
  
* * * * *   
  
The house lacked a telephone, as Truman discovered when Sylvia and he went downstairs.  
  
"We'll have more security that way," Dietrich explained.  
  
But they had a radio, which they kept tuned to a news station.  
  
"A bungalow on Wells Street caught fire this morning. Firefighters are still battling the blaze that broke out on the second floor. No injuries are reported; it appears the homeowner, detective Dietrich Hohenzoller was out for the day when the fire broke out."  
  
Tenniel looked at Dietrich; the larger man bore the news with his face set in a mask of patient stoicism.  
  
"Montressor?" Tenniel asked.  
  
"It sounds very like his work," Dietrich said. "Id iss nod ze verst time I haff hadt zreadts." He cleared his throat, "It's not the first time I've had threats. I had an anthrax threat a year ago."  
  
"What was that over?" Truman asked. "Or is that none of my business?"  
  
"No, it was a matter of a girl who suspected her father of being a child pornographer. I had to shadow him for a few days. His actions were worse than mere consumption, which is bad enough: he belonged to a ring of pornographers."  
  
"Ugh!" Truman shuddered. "He sent you the anthrax letter?"  
  
"It was only a threat, but it was bad enough," Dietrich said. "The daughter later divorced him to protect her son from him."  
  
"Don't let Deet lead you to believe every case he has is an adventure; he's had a lot of boring ones," Jerry said.  
  
They had to content themselves by lunching off Spam on crackers. Bettina had gone out for supplies—bread and milk and vegetables and other things.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Walter passed by TLF headquarters, but he found it deserted. He left a note on the door, leaving his name and number and a message.   
  
* * * * *   
  
"So did you ever have anything for her?" Sylvia asked as they sat in the shelter of the back porch, Dietrich guarding them.  
  
"Who, her?" Truman asked.  
  
"Her, the new girl, Vivian."  
  
"Oh, that her. I barely saw her long enough to think much of her. Well, she was nicely put together and all that, but she wasn't you. I mean, okay, she looked a little like you and when I first saw her, I almost mistook her for you. But when the office manager introduced us, I got a good look at her and I realized she wasn't you."  
  
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like me."  
  
"Hey, I'm supposed to say that."  
  
"Okay: say it."  
  
"Of course they had to cast someone who looked like you, just to confuse me and get me all interested. But she wasn't you, so she didn't matter."  
  
"You want to know why they threw her in?"  
  
"Not really, but why?"  
  
"Cristoff wanted you and Meryl to have a baby."  
  
"Ew, gross!" Truman gagged.  
  
"I know. So because Meryl left you—or rather, because Hannah Gill, the actress who played her, decided she'd had enough of the show and enough of you—they sent in Vivan to stand in for her."  
  
"Oh boy. I guess I got out of there in time."  
  
"On top of that, Hannah told the press she honestly thinks you're a eunuch, which is another reason why she left."  
  
"Okay, maybe I hadn't been Casanova to her, but you know how they say you get indigestion when you eat something you don't like? That's how it was with her."  
  
He glanced at Dietrich, who stood leaning against the porch railing, watching the yard.  
  
"Uh, we aren't grossing you out or anything, are we?"  
  
"No, not at all; I respected your privacy: I wasn't listening."  
  
Truman turned back to Sylvia and stroked her cheek with his fingertips. "If I were to be a dad, I'd want you to be my kids' mom."  
  
Sylvia blushed, smiling, but a tear showed in her eye. "I'd be honored. I'd be more than honored, I'd be delighted. There's only one man I want my kids to look like. And he's you."  
  
* * * * *   
  
The intercom went off again in Cristoff's apartment. He lay in bed with the pillow over his head, ignoring its insistent buzzing. The noise stopped. He closed his eyes and prepared to slip back into the fitful doze he had settled into for the past few hours.  
  
He heard the door open and someone enter.  
  
"Cris? Are you still alive?" Moses' voice called.  
  
"I'm here," Cristoff mumbled. He pushed back the pillow.  
  
Moses entered the room, a blond young woman at his side. Moses glanced at the monitor at the foot of the bed.  
  
"I hate to break this to you, but we're gonna have to cut transmission of that shot; it's costing us."  
  
"Go ahead, do it. You own everything anyway; you can do what you want. Take it, so long as you leave Truman alone."  
  
"Montressor's no closer to finding him than we are, if that is what you mean."  
  
"You don't know him like I do; he has some brand of second sight. If he latches onto a person, they're never out of the reach of his awareness, even if they are physically just out of arm's reach."  
  
"Cris, you okay? You been drinking?"  
  
"Not much."  
  
"We'll get you a doctor if you think you need one."  
  
"I'll get by." He looked at the woman. "Are you still hanging about, Miss Prewitt?"  
  
"I just wanted to find out if you'd found Truman."  
  
"You know the show has been cancelled."  
  
"I know, I just wondered if I could finish for real what I started."  
  
"You know he's not here. You may as well go to Montressor. Maybe you can talk him out of grabbing at Truman. He might listen to you because you're pretty."  
  
"I'll do what I can, for both of us," she promised.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Claudia knocked on the door of the penthouse apartment of the Burbank Ritz Carlton. No one answered. She almost went away.  
  
The door flew open and a stocky man in black with a rat face grabbed her by the neck. He hauled her into the room and slammed the door behind them.  
  
Gripping her from behind, he pressed the blade of a stiletto to her ribs.  
  
"What's you name?" he asked.  
  
"C-Claudia Prewitt."  
  
"Did Cristoff send you here?"  
  
"He t-told me only M-M-M-Montressor knew where—gick!—Truman was."  
  
"Well, that makes all the difference."  
  
The man dragged her through the foyer and down a dark hallway to a room at the end. He hauled her up a step and up to the door. He listened at it a moment, peered through the keyhole, then knocked on the door with the hand that held the stiletto.  
  
"What is it?" a muffled voice within asked.  
  
"We got a spy from Cristoff. A girl spy."  
  
"Send her in."  
  
Her captor opened the door and yanked her into the room.  
  
A midnight blue brocade curtain separated the room into two halves, the one a sitting room, the other a bedchamber.  
  
Beyond the curtain stood a sumptuous bed with a carved ebony headboard shadowed by a scarlet and gold canopy.  
  
On a heap of black velvet and scarlet satin pillows sprawled a small man perhaps in his fifties, swarthy and saturnine except for a splotch of white flesh that surrounded one eye, red from albinism. The black satin top sheet and the black and violet tapestry coverlets lay pulled away to one side, but he held them over his bare chest. One leg, lean but gracefully muscled, lay flung across the covers, bare to the hip. Something in the shadows on the far side of the bed gasped and whimpered with mingled pain and languor.  
  
"Who are you?" the strange man demanded.  
  
"C-Claudia Prewitt," she said. This outlandish creature must be Montressor.  
  
"And what brings you here?"  
  
"I only wanted to find Truman. Cristoff told me you would know."  
  
Montressor folded his arms behind his head and rubbed the sole of his foot on the bedcovers. "So Cristoff sent you. How do I know he hasn't sent you to find out for him if I've found the whelp?"  
  
"I'm not a spy. I just want to find Truman."  
  
"Oh yes, you're her, you're the little wench they took on to conceive his child. Still hankering for him, eh?"  
  
"Well, no, I wanted to see if he, uh, would want to carry on a real relationship."  
  
"A real relationship, indeed! You tell such delightful fictions, you should be a novelist."  
  
"So where is Truman anyway?"  
  
"I haven't got him hiding under the bed, you must know."  
  
"You don't know?"  
  
"He's dropped off my radar for the moment."  
  
"In that case, I guess I'd better be going."  
  
"Ah, but you only just got here."  
  
The rat-faced man grabbed her by the back of the neck.  
  
"I really—should—go," she gasped. She tried to struggle.  
  
"And beat me to the little morsel? You're not the only one who wants the tender lad. But since you caught me in a good mood, I'll let you off easy. If you promise never to go anywhere near Truman, and if you promise to go out quietly, I'll have Mr. Sweyk here escort you safely back to her apartment."  
  
"If I get out of here, I'm gonna find Truman if it takes me the rest of my life," she grunted.  
  
"Oh, you just made it hard for yourself."  
  
Sweyk pushed her to the foot of the bed. Montressor lunged from the pillows reaching for her. She screamed as he flipped back the bedcovers.  
  
* * * * *   
  
At dinner in the cottage, several other members of the TLF crew joined Truman and his comrades, including Trinidad, their PR woman and Marcus Wang, Tenniel's secretary. Because there were too many of them now to sit comfortably around the kitchen table, Bettina and Sylvia set up a buffet in the kitchen so everyone could shuttle back and forth between it and the living room where everyone had gathered.  
  
"Well, the fire marshal is saying Dietrich's house may have caught fire from a cigarette left burning in the bedroom," Marcus said.  
  
"And I don't smoke cigarettes," Dietrich said.  
  
"Neither do I, Mom whipped my rear something awful the time she caught me with a pack Marlon smuggled to me what I was sixteen," Truman said.  
  
"Watch it with them butts, Sylvia," Jerry said.  
  
"Yeah, right," Sylvia groaned. "Dietrich, are you gonna rebuild?"  
  
Dietrich gazed out the bay window of the living room at the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the tree branches. He shook his head.  
  
"Only if I should survive this task," he said.  
  
"Why, what could happen?" asked Bettina.  
  
Dietrich glanced at his plate. "Each meal could be my last. Montressor could find us out any minute. He has his spies, his ways of finding out. And he will stop at nothing to get what he wants."  
  
"How do you know all this? I thought you were just a detective?" Bettina asked.  
  
Dietrich looked at them all. "I used to work for Montressor, as an actor, many years ago when I was younger…and slenderer, I might add." Serious again, he continued, "I know what he can and will do to get what he wants when he wants it: arson, abduction, seduction, rape, assault, even murder. I once saw him step over the body of a man he'd just shot through the heart, to get at the man's daughter."  
  
Marcus looked at Jerry. "Did you know all this?"  
  
"Well, Deet's always spared me the gory details, but I knew what he'd been through."  
  
Truman turned to Dietrich. "You think he might kill you?" Truman asked Dietrich.  
  
"He would kill any one of us if we stood in his way to you. But he would kill me more outright."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I dared to say no to him. In his eyes, I am already a dead man, killing me would merely be casting out a ghost from the past. He'd kill me with relish."  
  
The room fell silent for a moment.  
  
"Just make sure to stay away from piccalilli then," Jerry said, breaking the somber quiet. Everyone chuckled with relief.  
  
"Yeah, just make sure if you buy a hotdog from a street vendor, you ask him to hold the works. He might be one of Montressor's spies," Truman added.  
  
Sylvia laughed so hard she splatted her drink.  
  
"Nothing like laughter to dispel the shadows," Truman said.  
  
"That's one reason I like you so much," she said, recovering. "You set the room rocking with your laughter. You lit up my life."  
  
He looked at her earnestly. He set aside his plate and got down on his knees before her.  
  
"I know I'm running for my life, and I know we've got a nut on our heels. But before we do anything else or go anywhere else, can I ask one thing of you?"  
  
"Ask anything," she said, looking into his face.  
  
"Sylvia…will you marry me?"  
  
She didn't stop to think, not for an instant. "Yes."  
  
He sat back on his heels, drawing her down onto his knees. She put her arms about his neck. They met in the middle and kissed each other.  
  
A collective sigh mixed with giggles rose from the rose from the rest of the gathering. Everyone around them clapped and cheered.  
  
Truman glanced out of the corner of his eye. One person clapped half-heartedly. He noticed Jerry wasn't smiling.  
  
  
  
To be continued… 


	4. The Angry Confrontation

+J.M.J.+  
  
  
  
Through the Door in the Sky  
  
  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
  
  
Author's Note:  
  
Remember this one??? I've neglected this one for far too long, but it has not   
  
been an easy write. I have an idea how it ends, but getting to that ending has   
  
been hard to figure out, plus I've had a few problems with some of my original   
  
characters taking over the story, or at least trying to (Not Dietrich   
  
Hohenzoller, he's too humble yet noble to do that, but Jerry Peik and Azor   
  
Montressor are both another story). "fom4life" has been getting all over my rear   
  
to finish this one, so here's the fourth part. Keep an eye out for a mild   
  
discrepancy: there is more going on than meets the eye. Also, I added a few   
  
details from the "History of 'The Truman Show'" which forms the forward of the   
  
shooting script, which I have been using as a reference as I write this (when   
  
I've been writing this. If only I could stop coming up with ideas for weird "Road   
  
to Perdition" fics!)  
  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See chapter I. WARNING: Mild slash (Montressor/Sweyk). Don't think that I regard   
  
homosexuals as evil. Montressor doesn't count as such really because he's more   
  
of a sexual omnivore than anything else…to put it mildly.  
  
  
  
But first, the simulated movie credits; Hey, it's my fic…  
  
  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
Featuring   
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
And Themselves  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
* * * * * *  
  
  
  
Chapter IV: The Angry Confrontation  
  
Mose, the executive producer of "the show" stood up behind his desk as the door of his office opened. Two huge men in long black leather jackets strode into the room, forcing back the secretary who opened the door.  
  
As the big men came up to the desk, someone behind them reached up and pushed them aside, a smaller man in a gray shantung suit fitted to his lean frame under a black cloak lined with purple satin. A wide-brimmed black fedora with along peacock feather in the band sat tilted over his face, shading the whole left side of his visage. He paused, posed flamboyantly with his wrists resting on his lackeys' shoulders, then he took off his hat.  
  
"Are all the papers in order?" Montressor asked.  
  
"Yes, I just finished speaking with the legal department: We've released Truman's papers and turned them over to you, Azor," Mose said, pushing a contract across the desktop.  
  
Montressor perched himself on the edge of the desk and picked up the contract. He scanned it over, his albinist eye blinking slightly.  
  
"Yes…yes…everything is everything," Montressor purred. He laid the contract on the desktop, reached inside his jacket and drew out a fountain pen, uncapped it and, with a flourish, signed the document in what Mose hoped was only red ink.  
  
He looked up at Mose. "So, you promise to let me bring Truman to his new residence cum place of employ in my own manner, without the intervention of any local, state, or Federal authorities?"  
  
"He's out of our hands and into yours," Mose said, spreading his hands, hoping they didn't look helpless.  
  
Montressor reached out with his piebald hand and patted Mose's cheek. That gesture alone made his skin start to crawl. "That's what I like to hear. Now, you won't have to look at my gorgeous face again, since I'll be out looking for my boy. You're a dear, anyone told you that? You find a good use for that cash: find yourself another child star."  
  
Montressor stood up, putting his hat on his head. He grinned at Mose crookedly and strode for the door, his henchmen closing in behind him.  
  
Mose breathed a sigh of relief, his sweat cold on his brow and the back of his neck. Now he just had to break the news to Cristoff…  
  
* * * * *   
  
Over breakfast on the back porch, Jerry and Sylvia shared crazy behind the scenes stories with Truman.  
  
"Remember the college rowing club?" Sylvia asked.  
  
"Ugh, not one of my favorite memories," Truman groaned.  
  
"It was really funny behind the scenes," Sylvia said.  
  
"Yeah, Cristoff wanted this one guy to half-drown, Harry le Drip we'll call him," Jerry continued. "But Harry le Drip didn't want to half-drown because he was afraid of completely drowning. So I offered to half-drown instead. I mean, it would look funnier: I was playing this stiff comic character; it would look funnier if the prissy rich guy almost drowns, then comes to and complains that he'd rather that he'd almost drowned in whatever-brand-bottled-water had made product placement that season.  
  
"So we were rehearsing in the far side of the tank that surrounded the island. Everything was going normally, until the boat capsized and I go overboard. Then my rowing shorts caught on something and tore off completely. I mean, there I am in the altogether except for my tank top."  
  
"Unfortunately, I happened to be looking in just the right place," Sylvia said, blushing.  
  
"Uh oh!" Truman cried. "How dare you expose yourself in front of my future intended!  
  
"She was a lady about it: she lobbed her sweater toward me and I covered myself up," Jerry concluded.  
  
"Well, here's how I remember that incident: Marlon—or should I call him Lou Whatsizface?—he was trying to get me to join the rowing club and cure my water phobia that way. So he and Meryl dragged me to a rowing meet one day. And that very day, one of the star rowers almost drowns before my very eyes. So I bugged outta there. Never went back."  
  
"You know why you were like that, don't you?" asked a deep voice.  
  
The three of them looked up. Dietrich stood framed in the open door.  
  
"I bet it had to do with that Cristoff dude you told me about," Truman said.  
  
"It did: he bred this fear into you, cultivated it like a plant so you would stay put upon his island."  
  
"So my father being lost at sea, Jerry almost drowning, that was part of the plan?" Truman asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Truman shook his head. "I guess it's something of a miracle that I got up the courage to escape across the water."  
  
"You may want to gather your courage again for the news I have to break," Dietrich said. He drew in a long breath. "Montressor just signed an agreement with the executives of OmniCam: he owns you now."  
  
Truman leaned forward in his chair, gripping the edge of the table, his mouth went slack. Sylvia put her hands on his shoulders.  
  
"I guess I'd better start packing my bags," he said. "We can forget about the wedding plans."  
  
"No, there's ways we can bypass Montressor's jackals. If we stay in one place as much as possible, that will help. But those of us who must go in and out will have to be on our guard more than ever," Dietrich said.  
  
"Well, you and I will really have to keep our eyes peeled," Jerry said, getting up from the table and going in, letting Dietrich take over the watch.  
  
Sylvia kneaded Truman's shoulders. "Hey, we can get through this if we stay together. It won't be long before all this is behind us and we can live in peace."  
  
He clasped one of her hands in his. "But we gotta get married some time."  
  
"We can secret a justice of the peace up here. Tenniel can pull it off."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Cristoff ran the cold-water faucet in his bathroom over his throbbing head.  
  
The intercom buzzed. "Cris, are you alive in there? It's Mose."  
  
"I'm in the bathroom!" Cristoff yelled, making his headache worse.  
  
He lifted his dripping head from the basin as Mose walked in.  
  
"Did they find him? Did they find Truman?" Cristoff asked.  
  
Mose put his hand on Cristoff's shoulder. "This isn't easy news for me to break to you. But…we sealed the deal with Montressor."  
  
Cristoff stared at Mose. He lifted his hand and pushed Mose's hand from his shoulder.  
  
"You didn't."  
  
"We had no choice. We just lost our best program, reruns or no reruns. Montressor's idea could work. They gave our show a chance, now it's time for Azor to take a turn."  
  
"Azor's turn. You're calling him Azor now. Are you on that close terms with him already?"  
  
"He has an interesting concept. There's only one way to find out how the audiences are going to accept it."  
  
Cristoff pointed an accusing finger at Mose. "You know they won't take too well to it."  
  
"The critics said that about our show."  
  
"Montressor's show was nothing like mine. My work was meant to bring hope into the world, to the viewers. Montressor…I don't know what Montressor hopes to do except blacken their minds and hearts."  
  
"You sound like a Republican."  
  
"Don't care if I do!" Cristoff snapped back.  
  
"Cris, my hands were tied. The network needs new blood."  
  
"Azor Montressor will only drain your network. He's a vampire."  
  
"My network? Cris, you built it up. If you want, you can stay on and help Azor get his feet on the ground."  
  
"There is one person I am NOT going to help and that person is Azor Montressor, so you can take that thought and cram it up your nose!"  
  
"Cris, please, be reasonable."  
  
"There is nothing reasonable about your proposition. Now get out!"  
  
Mose gave him an odd look. "All right, Cris, if that's what you want. But I'm afraid you won't be able to stay here in the apartment for much longer. You might want to start packing."  
  
"OUT!!!"  
  
Mose went out slowly.  
  
Cristoff sat down on the edge of the bathtub. His head sank into his hands between his knees. He wept the tears he had been holding back.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich was on high alert that day. He had some of the grounds men start checking cars for stowaways as people came and went. Bettina told him it wasn't necessary with every vehicle, since she only had a hatch back Ford Probe, little chance for one of Montressor's spies to sneak in hidden in the back of that thing, which Jerry not too affectionately called a "roller-skate".  
  
"Oh, you're calling it that because you drive a great big Land Rover," Bettina retorted, as they unloaded boxes of groceries from the back of the "Ford Probe Roller-Skate".  
  
"Well, y' know, y' could stow the Probe in the back of the Land Rover and use that as an emergency car in case the Land Rover died," Truman suggested.  
  
After lunch, Tenniel did something he considered vital to Truman's adjustment to the real world.  
  
Sylvia knocked on the door of Truman's room. "Who goes there: friend or foe?" he demanded in a deep voice.  
  
"A very good friend," she said. He threw the door open.  
  
"Oh, THAT kind of friend!" he cried, grabbing her and kissing her a little too hard.  
  
She pushed him off gently. "Tenniel wants to show you something downstairs. It's very important."  
  
"Okay," Truman said, a little uncertain, but following her downstairs.  
  
They went into the living room, where Tenniel was inserting a DVD into a player built into a TV with no receptor. The menu screen came up.  
  
THE TRUMAN SHOW: EPISODE 9,855  
  
Truman stood slightly aghast, staring at the screen blankly.  
  
"You don't have to watch it if you don't want to," Tenniel said, his finger hovering over the "stop" button on the remote.  
  
"I don't think I should…I mean, it might make me want to go back," Truman hesitated.  
  
"I think when you see the show for yourself, it will give you some perspective on the whole phenomena," Tenniel said.  
  
"Look at it as a very strange kind of out-of-body experience," Jerry said, from his seat by the window.  
  
"Well…okay," Truman said, sitting down on the couch. "I'll watch it for all its worth."  
  
"I'll be right here in case you have trouble," Sylvia promised, sitting down next to him.  
  
Tenniel hit the "play" button.  
  
The episode showed the day Truman and "Meryl"—Hannah Gill, or whatever her name was—bought their house: waking up in the room they had shared in his "mother's" house after they got back from their wedding/camping trip; breakfast; going to the realtor's office; looking at the fact sheets on several houses. They found a bungalow marketed as the perfect starter house. Truman noticed something a bit too chatty about the real estate agent, just a bit too salesman-like. But he probably hadn't noticed it then: he'd been too close to that world, and he'd still been in the honeymoon afterglow.   
  
He'd haggled with the real estate woman: that sounded convincing, because he knew it wasn't acting. She'd given him a song and a dance, but he was as much a salesman as she was. They settled on a lower price of $50,000.  
  
Tenniel fast-forwarded a few scenes just because it was connecting material: driving home, grocery shopping for Truman's "mother". He returned it to normal speed during the dinner scene so they could hear the conversation.  
  
"God, what a bad actor," Jerry commented on Truman's "mother" otherwise known as Alanis Montclair. "Now just why did that woman win five Emmy awards in the last seven years?"  
  
"She really wasn't a great actor, even if she was good at faking illnesses," Sylvia said.  
  
"Faking in more ways than one," Truman commented ruefully.  
  
"Now what makes you say that?" Tenniel asked, clearly knowing the answer yet clearly wanting to hear Truman elaborate on it himself.  
  
"Well, she was faking it as an actress and as a hypochondriac," Truman said. "I always wondered if she was faking it, and I was gonna send her to a shrink. Imagine if I had tried."  
  
"Yeah, they'd have had you go to a shrink," Jerry said.  
  
They watched in silence for a while. Tenniel fast-forwarded it again through a scene with Truman (onscreen) and "Meryl" washing dishes, playing a board game with "mother"—it didn't surprise Truman that it was "Life"—then getting ready for the night. When "Meryl" and Truman (onscreen) started getting cozy, Truman himself had to look away.  
  
"It's not so bad," Sylvia said. "But you don't have to watch."  
  
He peeked out of the corner of his eye. The camera had cut to the curtains blowing in the wind, the moon shining through the window.  
  
"Had enough?" Tenniel asked.  
  
"That's enough for me," Jerry said.  
  
"Yes, thanks," Sylvia said.  
  
Tenniel hit the stop button on the remote, got up and ejected the disk.  
  
Truman sat with his hands gripping his knees. He shook his head, trying to clear it, breathing hard. "It was all so real," he said. "But it wasn't."  
  
"Do you wish you could go back?" Sylvia asked.  
  
"I want to keep going forward, but part of me just wishes it could all be like it was before," he said, turning his hands over, empty.  
  
"You know you can't go back," Jerry said, dead sober. "There's probably nothing left to go back to. There's no other choice left."  
  
Truman breathed freely again. "Okay, okay…I'm okay…just got cold feet for a second there."  
  
* * * * *   
  
That evening, the company was a little subdued at supper. Even Jerry's usual chatter seemed dampened.  
  
Sylvia offered to help Bettina and Marcus with the dishes. Dietrich went out to collect the mail and check on how matters stood at the offices of the TLF during Jerry's watch.  
  
"Permission to go out for a breath of fresh air?" Truman asked Tenniel, as the chief collected the dishes and brought them to the kitchen.  
  
"Of course," Tenniel said, mock severe. "But don't be out more than a half an hour or else you next turn will be docketed."  
  
"I'll make sure he doesn't," Jerry said, dead pan, but with a gleam in his eye.  
  
"You getting stir-crazy?" Jerry asked when they were outside.  
  
"A little," Truman admitted. "But I should be used to it after being cooped up in that fortress for twenty-nine years."  
  
"You mean the EcoSphere," Jerry said. "Yeah, but you had no clue that there was much else beyond that. Imagine being part of the supporting cast, being cooped up in that place for weeks at a time, not much contact with the outside world, and pretending to be a different person for most of the day. That happened to me when I worked there. Very schizophrenic way to live: I used to almost forget I was Jerry Peik sometimes when I finally got out."  
  
"Gee, and I thought I had it bad."  
  
"Mm, and neither of us had it as bad as Dietrich had it working for Montressor."  
  
"He told you any particulars?"  
  
"Not by word of mouth. I found it out the hard way. When I lost my apartment, I stayed with him for a while. Third night I stayed there, he woke me up, screaming. He'd had a nightmare about Montressor. That's the only time I've ever seen him that scared. His back is all scarred up from floggings Montressor had his goons give him when he—Dietrich that is—tried to back out."  
  
"That's horrible," Truman said.  
  
"Yeah, I actually watched an old episode of a series Montressor did years ago," Jerry screwed up his face and shook his head. "Bad stuff. I mean, adult content is one thing, but this was horrible. This stuff would make David Cronenberg movies look like Frank Capra's stuff." He looked at Truman, realizing his misstep. "Oops, sorry, I forgot you've never seen anything higher than PG-13."  
  
"Well, Marlon or whatzisface smuggled a copy of Playboy into the house once, and I really caught it from my mother."  
  
"Even THAT is very mild compared to Montressor's work."  
  
"Speaking of adult stuff, not to sound prying but, uh, did Dietrich ever like y' know, try the moves on you?"  
  
"Nah, that's just the way he is. In all the years I've known him, I've never seen him even have a crush on anyone," Jerry said.  
  
"I'd think he'd be tempted."  
  
"He knows I'm not that type, not to say he hasn't had his share of curiosity about me and some sublimated interest."  
  
"That doesn't bother you?"  
  
"He wasn't the first and he probably won't be the last. Besides, as long as no one is stalking me or trying to kill me, I've nothing to worry about."  
  
Truman changed the subject. "So, as far as getting me out is concerned, where do we go from here?"  
  
"We're proceeding with caution now. But according to Dietrich, the Montressor expert, the little rat is likely to celebrate his victory with a two-day orgy, which buys us a little time but not much."  
  
"Guess we better budget that time. Sylvia and I had better get hitched soon, otherwise we might not live long enough to share the same last name," Truman said.  
  
"Okay, my turn to ask a personal question: did you and that other woman wait for the ring?"  
  
Truman wagged his head. "Not all the way; that woman who was my mother would have taken a fit if she'd found out, and even if she didn't ask me outright, she'd have weaseled it out of me somehow. She was the kind of person you couldn't keep stuff from." He paused. "I suppose that Cristoff dude who ran the zoo ordered her to do that to me." In a gravelly, gangsterish voice, he said, "Aw right, yer not gonna let that kid do nothin' behind yah back, right? And if he tries to hide somethin' from yah, whaddya do? Yah gonna get on his case till he sings, right? Riiiiggghht." In a swoony falsetto, he added, "Oh yes, boss Cristoff, anything you say!"  
  
Jerry laughed. "God, you should have been an actor."  
  
Truman shoved him playfully as he said, "Peik, I WAS an actor for the past twenty-nine years."  
  
"I suppose it wouldn't be too fahr-fetched for yew to resohrt to that other grayt Amerric'n spohrt: litigaysh'n," Jerry said. He suddenly shook his head and cleared his throat noisily. Truman eyed him, wondering if this might be some kind of odd Canadian joke.  
  
"Yeah, I thought about that. Not a bad idea: sue the OmniCam Corporation for twenty-nine years back wages. It was white slavery, right?"  
  
"That's how we described it. The TLF always said that Lincoln abolished slavery in the States, but OmniCam brought it back, in a far more insidious incarnation."  
  
"You're darn right there," Truman said.  
  
They both were thoughtfully quiet for a long while. Jerry fell back a little ways, giving Truman some space. Truman looked up at the darkening sky above. A white light showed over the treetops. He paused to watch it.  
  
A yellow-white orb lifted over the trees.  
  
Truman looked at Jerry. "So that's the moon."  
  
"Is it real?" Jerry asked in a tremulous squeak, like a child's voice. In his normal voice, he added, "Yeah, that used to bug me something awful. The moon in the EcoSphere never moved. Know why?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"It was a screen for the window of Cristoff's apartment on the roof of the EcoSphere. Oh, that drove me nuts: look up at the sky in the middle of the day. Oh, there's the moon, there for all to see, never moves. I was glad to get out of that madhouse when Cristoff fired me." He looked at Truman. "But not so glad as you must have been."  
  
"I don't know…with this Montressor goon buying me, it might have been better if I'd stayed put," Truman said, shaking his head and turning away.  
  
Jerry grabbed him from behind and spun him around to face him. His green eyes smoldered with irritation.  
  
"Listen, fella, there's no going back there. Dietrich could tell you better and maybe he should," he said, dead serious.  
  
"Isn't there some way we could turn this all around, put things back the way they were?" Truman asked.  
  
Jerry's fingers on his shoulders twitched ever so slightly, but a paroxysm of pain shot through Truman's nerves so that he almost fell to his knees. Jerry let him go. Truman staggered back.  
  
"I didn't want to have to do it that way, but I thought it best to give you a small taste of what Montressor might have in store for you," Jerry said, apologetic.  
  
"Maybe I better go in," Truman said, rubbing his aching shoulders.  
  
"Yeah, Dietrich won't want to find you out here when he gets back."  
  
"Wouldn't want to have someone that big mad at me. Especially if guys my size can almost floor me."  
  
"Nah, Dietrich's a big fuzzball: you have to do something really nasty before he'll do some major damage to you, unless you've done something to warrant a counter assault."  
  
"Montressor couldn't get past him, eh?"  
  
"They'd have to get past me first," Jerry said.  
  
"Oh, send in the skinny kid first."  
  
"Yup, nothing beats David against Goliath before you bring out the heavy artillery."  
  
"And Dietrich is some really heavy artillery."  
  
"You ain't kiddin'."  
  
"I bet Dietrich could make mincemeat outta Montressor."  
  
"Might take some doing getting at him."  
  
"Oh, yeah, those big goons he sends around."  
  
"You seen 'em?"  
  
"I spotted 'em the first day I escaped," he shivered.  
  
"I second the motion," Jerry said, fitting the action to the words.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Dietrich carefully avoided the main roads as he came back from checking the main office of the TLF, collecting the mail, making sure nothing had happened. No more arson… By now Montressor would be too drugged or drunk or screwed or gorged to send his henchmen out.  
  
But he realized such generalizations could land him in trouble. Montressor was as violent and unpredictable as the wind.  
  
He headed back to the cottage by yet another indirect route. He came within sight of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel; he glanced up at it, wondering if Montressor had encamped there as he always did when he was in L.A.  
  
* * * * *   
  
At that moment, Sweyk was coming up the stairs to the penthouse. Gregor the front guard let him in, looking disappointed that the man at the door wasn't an intruder he could rough up.  
  
"How's the old man?" Sweyk asked.  
  
"As wound tight as the bark on a tree and ready to pass out, whichever he does first," Gregor said.  
  
"The usual post-celebration stuff, I hear yah," Sweyk said, heading on into the front room.  
  
He found Montressor sitting sprawled out in his armchair, his head slung back, mouth slack, eyes a little glassy. The collar of his shirt and his vest hung open. He cradled the swollen left side of his belly on the inside of one forearm.  
  
Montressor lifted his head, his eyes slightly unfocussed. "Holla, Sweyk!" he said a little thickly. "Anything to report?"  
  
"Not much action down to TLF HQ," Sweyk said.  
  
A grin crossed Montressor's face. "Not watching their back door, eh? Perhaps then we should make things a little hot for them."  
  
"Want us to teach 'em a little thing or two? Is the timing right?"  
  
"You've learned well," Montressor said. "But first…help me to rise. I sat down and got stuck."  
  
"Want me to pull yah out?"  
  
Montressor snorted. "Don't be ridiculous; I'm not that bloated."  
  
Sweyk took Montressor's hand and helped him to rise. He supported the smaller man along the hallway to the bedroom. Montressor stumbled once, veering to the left, pulling Sweyk that way.  
  
"Whadja do? Consume all 2,000 calories at one sitting?" Sweyk grunted.  
  
Righting himself, Montressor shoved Sweyk against the wall. "One more crack out of you and I just might have you for dessert—you're lucky I'm too logy to do much to you." He bit Sweyk on the ear so hard the larger man yelped.  
  
"Not yet, not yet," Montressor purred, letting go of Sweyk's ear. They continued down the hallway.  
  
"So you want us to put the burn on the TLF?" Sweyk asked at the door to Montressor's chamber.  
  
"By all means: Hohenzoller will be expecting me to be out of commission. He's forgotten a lot of things about me," Montressor said, leaning against the doorpost. "Go to it, Sweyk."  
  
"Y' don't have to tell me twice."   
  
* * * * *   
  
On the route back to the cottage, Dietrich took the same road from which branched the access road to the EcoSphere. He passed by the forest that half-concealed most of the bulk of the structure. The dome hulked above the treetops, gleaming in the moonlight, the exposed support armatures on the outside like silvered cobwebs.  
  
He drove past the access road, but after a few hundred yards, he pulled the car over and U-turned, heading back.  
  
He drove up the access road. The gates stood open. A shake down crew was going in and out of the building, removing loads of set pieces. They took no notice of him as he pulled the car behind the parked trucks. He got out and crossed the yard purposefully. In his black leather windbreaker, military fatigue pants and combat shoes, he looked like a security guard, so he blended in.  
  
He tested several doors as if he were a guard. Finding one open, he let himself in.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Cristoff sat in his front room, near the glass table on which lay the handgun. His hands hung clasped between his knees. Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata" played on the stereo. He breathed deeply, evenly, trying to clear his head and get his resolve to kick in.  
  
They say mortal wounds give no pain.  
  
His life's work cut short, his star player vanished and now sold to the likes of Azor Montressor. He had lived too long. He was only sixty and robust for his age, but he felt older than that.  
  
He drew in a long breath. He made his hand reach for the gun, his eyes staring straight ahead, not tracking with his head, not panning toward the table. His hand closed on the gunstock, feeling without feeling the rubberized metal grip.  
  
He held the gun in both hands, weighing it in his palms. The lamplight shone dully on the barrel.  
  
Something rattled at the door, probably just the night watchman testing the lock. Cristoff waited for him to pass on.  
  
He ejected the clip and checked it. One bullet left. That was all it would take, but that was all he had.  
  
The door creaked open.  
  
He pressed the muzzle under his jaw, pointing up. He started to thumb off the safety.  
  
A shadow fell over him.  
  
"Mr. Cristoff?" asked a deep voice behind him.  
  
Cristoff whirled round in his chair. A tall, bulky man in a black leather jacket stood behind him. Cristoff rose, stepping back. Who was Montressor sending now?  
  
"How did you get in here?" he demanded.  
  
"Your door was unlocked. It is not fit for a man like you to seal himself up in a room."  
  
"Who are you and what do you propose to do?"  
  
"My name is Dietrich Hohenzoller. I'm a private detective, but now I work for the TLF…I also urge you to put down the gun, you don't want to do that," the tall man said.  
  
"What in hell makes you say that? My life is of no use to anyone now, least of all myself," Cristoff rasped.  
  
"Yes, it is of use to someone. Truman needs to hear your side of the story. You brought him to this place, but I think you can help him cut the last ties to it."  
  
"Truman is…alive?"  
  
"Yes. He's in a safe place, but he can't stay there much longer before Montressor gets wise to us."  
  
"He doesn't want to hear it," Cristoff said, shaking his head. "He won't want to see me."  
  
"That may be so, but it will do the both of you much good," Hohenzoller held out his hand, open, palm up. "Give me the gun."  
  
Cristoff held out the gun, his hands opening over it, nerveless. Hohenzoller took it and removed the clip, putting the gun in one pocket, the clip in another.  
  
"How?"  
  
"You alone know what you must tell him. Come with me."  
  
"I can't. He won't want to hear a word I have to say."  
  
"That may be so, but you both need to face one another so that you may go on."  
  
Cristoff drew in a long breath. "All right. I'm coming with you."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia sat in the living room with Truman, telling him more about what her life had been like before and since "the show", when Jerry and Tenniel suddenly came into the room.  
  
"Truman, Hohenzoller has brought in a visitor for you," Tenniel said.  
  
"Okay, but, uh, can you tell me who it is?" Truman asked, uncertain.  
  
"'Fraid not, it would spoil the effect," Jerry said. He stepped aside from the doorway.  
  
A tall man clad in a black jersey over black slacks entered, a gray beret covering his bald head and he squinted at the world through metal-rimmed glasses.  
  
"Who are you?" Truman asked.  
  
"I'm Cristoff," the stranger said.  
  
"Oh, it's you," Truman snarled, doubling his fists. "You're the one who got me into this mess, the one who cooped me up in that mock-up small town. How do I know if you're really Cristoff and you're not that Montressor creep that's on my tail."  
  
"I knew Montressor very well: this is not he," Dietrich said.  
  
"I don't know if I trust that: I'm beginning to wonder what's real and what isn't," Truman said.  
  
"You're real, Truman," the stranger said.  
  
Truman looked at him.  
  
The voice…that was the same voice that had spoken to him out of the sky when he had stood before the open door in the painted backdrop.  
  
"If you're Cristoff, why did you do that to me? Can't you see how it fouled up my life?"  
  
"I never intended to mess up your life. I only wanted to protect you from the horrors of the real world."  
  
"But why protect me? You only made it worse for me!"  
  
"If we're going to get anywhere, perhaps I should explain myself.  
  
"I came from a very broken home. My father was a drug addict. My mother had to work as a call girl. Granted, she worked for a high class escort service, but she basically was supporting my father's habit—the man was a genius of a photographer when he wasn't stoned; he could have supported my sisters and I very handsomely if he ever put his talent to good use.  
  
"When I was eleven, Social Services finally stepped in and took us away from my parents, put us in the care of my uncle, my father's brother, who was in advertising, doing commercials. He recognized my talent and encouraged it, disciplined my gifts. He never told us outright that he loved us, but he had his own way of showing, by taking reels and reels of 8mm film of us, not just at big things like birthdays and Christmas, but ordinary stuff: washing dishes, cleaning our rooms, feeding the dog, doing yard work, waiting for the school bus.  
  
"I got an idea when I was sixteen to do a movie that would follow someone for a whole day, tastefully showing their every move. I quit high school and enrolled in a film school. My first effort was a twelve-hour long version of my adoptive father's home movies of my sisters and I, which I called "A Life in a Day". It won a few modest awards at a few independent film festivals. One of my classmates, Mose Meyers, suggested we shoot a reality film about homeless people in an empty building his father owned. Mose even dressed like a homeless man and moved around among them. We got in touch with a small cable channel owned by a company that made spy cameras for the CIA. They broadcasted a somewhat censored version of it, uninterrupted. Most people jumped on it for its somewhat sensational appeal, but some people called it far too realistic."  
  
"I imagine it was," Truman said.  
  
"I wasn't for everyone, I won't deny, but we had to start somewhere," Cristoff admitted. "I've always been an admirer of the classic films of the 19 30s and '40s, particularly the films of Frank Capra."  
  
"Oh, so that's why the TV channels in Sea Haven ran a lot of that stuff," Truman cut in.  
  
"I only wanted the best for your world," Cristoff admitted.  
  
"Let him finish his story," Sylvia pleaded.  
  
"Go on," Truman mumbled.  
  
"I wanted to do something along the lines of the first half of It's a Wonderful Life, where you see the hero's life from his childhood up to the present day of the story, only I wanted to expand on it: I wanted to show one man's life from his birth onwards. Mose found five different unwed mothers whose due dates were before the estimated air date of the show, which went by the working title of 'Bringing up Baby', but which we later changed to The Truman Show, when we decided on a name for the future star.  
  
"We started out very small, with just the interior set of Truman's—I mean, your house, first your nursery, then expanding as you got bigger. At the same time, several corporations had joined forces to construct what would eventually become the world's largest soundstage."  
  
"The fortress," Truman said. "That's what I call it."  
  
"It's actually called the EcoSphere, but you can call it what you like now."  
  
"So that's all I am to you? An actor in a crap TV show? I'm a living, breath human being, goddammit!"  
  
"I know you are," Cristoff said, calmly. "I wanted you to have the kind of life I wanted to have. I wanted you to know safety, and shelter, and security. I wanted you to have the kind of childhood I wished I could have had. All parents do."  
  
"If I am your son, you've done one lousy job of being a father," Truman rasped, just above a whisper.  
  
Cristoff drew in a long breath. "I don't deny that. But you have to realize what kind of a situation I was in."  
  
"Why didn't you think about the situation you put me in?!" Truman screamed. "What's real? Huh? Tell me! What is real? How do you define real in that screwed up head of yours, huh? Don't give me any quick answers, 'cause I don't have time for 'em."  
  
Cristoff looked at him. His lips parted slightly as if he were about to say something. But he pressed his mouth shut.  
  
Silence filled the room. Peik's eyes roved from one face to another; Sylvia put her hand on Truman's shoulder, but he took no notice. Tenniel's jaw clenched and relaxed, almost nervously. Dietrich maintained his usual calm stoicism.  
  
Cristoff's gaze had dropped to the floor. His hands hung slack on his thighs.  
  
He looked up. "I'm sorry, Truman, but I don't have an easy answer for you, except that I'm sorry for what I've put you through."  
  
"ENNNHH!" Truman said, making a noise like a gameshow buzzer. "That's not a good enough answer to fix the last twenty-nine years of my life. Ex-cuse me."  
  
With that he strode out of the room. They heard his feet clatter on the stairs. Then a door slammed overhead.  
  
"I was afraid something like this would happen," Cristoff said, to no one in particular. "That's why when Mose kept dunning me to do the 'M. Night Shyamalan thing', I never dared to do it."  
  
"Let me go talk to him," Sylvia said, heading for the stairs.  
  
Peik moved to catch her arm, but Dietrich was a second quicker. He touched the outside of her elbow. "Perhaps you should wait a moment, give his temper some time to cool," he suggested.  
  
"Maybe I can help cool it," she insisted. She mounted the stairs. Peik's eyes followed her up. Cristoff looked up after her.  
  
"Truman's damn right," he admitted. "I screwed up his life.  
  
"Not completely," Dietrich said, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He found Sylvia."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Sylvia tapped on Truman's door. No reply. She rapped louder. She heard a rustle behind the door, but nothing else.  
  
"Truman?" she asked.  
  
"Go away," his voice replied, muffled.  
  
"Truman, it's me: it's Sylvia." She tried the door. It wasn't locked, but she didn't want to intrude.  
  
After a moment, the door opened. Truman looked out at her, then stepped aside and let her in.  
  
"All right, I'm sorry I acted like a spoiled kid, but if you've gone through the kind of stuff I've gone through these past few days, you'd forget your manners too," he said. "I wasn't thinking."  
  
"I know you weren't, but just remember: Cristoff meant well," she said.  
  
"Well, what do they say about the road to hell being paved with good intentions?" he asked, closing the door behind him.  
  
"He made a terrible mistake, but some good came out of it," she said.  
  
"Oh really?" he sneered, pacing around her. "Do you really mean that, or are you just an actress mouthing lines?"  
  
She reached out to him. She took his face in her hands, covering his cheeks, turning his face to hers.  
  
"No. I'm real. And my love for you is real."  
  
He covered her hands with his. He drew her close and held her. He tried to hold it back, but he felt the tears come anyway. He leaned his face into her neck. She stroked him, consoling, almost motherly, but with a lover's passionate linger.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Downstairs, Cristoff turned to walk out. "I've burned out my welcome," he said. "I've injured him just by being here."  
  
"No, Cristoff," Tenniel said. "He's just a scared young man who's had a long, confusing week. He'll calm down again, once he gets his shirt out of a knot, and if there's anyone who can do that, it's Sylvia."  
  
"Even still, I should go," Cristoff said.  
  
Dietrich put his hand on Cristoff's shoulder, gripping it firmly. "No, Cristoff: you can't go."  
  
"I'd only be a burden to you," Cristoff said.  
  
"You aren't a burden. I think the two of you need to ride this out together," Tenniel said.  
  
"Besides, if you went now, who knows what Montressor has in store for you if your paths should cross," Jerry said, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Peik's right: we've admitted you to our circle of confidence," Tenniel said. "You're with us. You can't go back any more than he can. We have to protect you too."  
  
"You began this," Dietrich said, firmly, looking Cristoff in the eye. "You must help him complete this." He held out his hand, palm up.  
  
Cristoff looked up at Dietrich. The man could probably twist both his arms off easily. He thought of rushing Peik, but the smaller man was probably just as hard to get past in a different way. And even if he got past them, he would have to deal with Montressor out there.  
  
He had nothing left to lose.  
  
He put his hand in Dietrich's. Peik covered it with his. Tenniel put his hand under Dietrich's and put his free hand on top.  
  
"For Truman's sake," Cristoff said.  
  
"You're in," Tenniel said. "But just remember what being in entails.  
  
Cristoff nodded as they released his hand. "I know."  
  
  
  
To be continued… 


	5. The Fevered Preparations

+J.M.J.+  
  
  
  
Through the Door in the Sky  
  
  
  
By Matrix Refugee  
  
  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I'm on a roll with this one. Most of this chapter got drafted a long time ago   
  
when I was playing with ideas for this, but I was still able to salvage much of   
  
it anyway.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I. WARNING: more mild slash (Montressor/Jerry). I did try to avoid   
  
it, but the piebald creep in the sleazy lounging robes had other ideas.  
  
  
  
But first, the artificial movie credits; Hey, I'm doing this fic…  
  
  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
Featuring   
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
  
  
  
  
And as Themselves  
  
  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
  
  
* * * * * *  
  
  
  
Chapter V: The Fevered Preparations  
  
'"The allegations that I have dangerous intentions toward Truman Burbank are unfounded",' the voice of Montressor said over the radio in the kitchen.  
  
"Jaaaahhwohl," Dietrich said, in a sarcastic drawl.  
  
"Then how come they rammed Sylvia's car and they chased me through a woods?" Truman sneered.  
  
'Montressor is known in Europe for his controversial films; this new series will be his first network production in the United States, the radio announcer said.  
  
"Not if we can help it," Truman snipped.  
  
"Shh," Sylvia said.  
  
'In other news, a mysterious fire gutted the Plains Box Company factory over which the Truman Liberation Front, a protest group devoted to freeing the star of The Truman Show, had it's headquarters. It's not know what sparked the blaze or if this is related to recent events. The Fire Marshall is still investigating the cause of the five-alarm blaze.'  
  
"Montressor strikes again," Truman said.  
  
"Idt dass zoundt like hiss verk," Dietrich said, clearing his throat.  
  
"Guess we better have that wedding soon," Truman said. He eyed Sylvia sidewise as he added, "I don't known how much longer I can wait."  
  
"We're getting a doctor up here to do a Wasserman test," Tenniel said. "I know a JP who can keep his mouth shut."  
  
"We'd do best to got you out of here as soon as is possible," Dietrich said. "Before Montressor finds out."  
  
"And before I really get stir crazy," Truman said, glumly.  
  
Jerry came into the kitchen with Cristoff at his back.  
  
'Police are now searching for Eugene Cristoff, director and mastermind of The Truman Show. The visionary artist was last seen in his apartment at the EcoSphere, the giant domed soundstage where the show was filmed. OmniCam Corporation president Mose Meyers says Cristoff had been suffering from severe depression following the disappearance of his star, Truman Burbank.'  
  
'"Cristoff looked at Truman almost like a son. He wasn't just an actor in his mind",' said another voice over the radio, presumably that of Mose Meyers.  
  
'Police are asking the public to notify them if they have any information regarding Cristoff's whereabouts. He is described as a tall man about six feet tall, approximately sixty years of age, with a slender but robust build, about one hundred fifty-five pounds, balding grayish-brown hair, gray eyes and metal-rimmed glasses.'  
  
"Well, that's a cheery thing to wake up to," Jerry groaned.  
  
"I guess I'm staying put as well," Cristoff said.  
  
"Hey, you got me into this, maybe it's good you're kinda getting a taste of what is was like for me," Truman said, smiling gently, no hard feelings.  
  
Cristoff only shrugged. "I can't argue that, son."  
  
"That's another thing: don't call me son or boy or anything like that. You aren't my real father," Truman said.  
  
"No, you aren't. That much I know. But the man who played your father was romantically involved with the woman who gave birth to you. We aren't sure, but he might be your real father."  
  
"So that's why he…seemed so real?" Truman asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Wow, this is making the scenario even more schizo than it was before," Truman said.  
  
"Life is full of that, I'm afraid," Cristoff said.  
  
* * * * *   
  
After breakfast, Dietrich and Tenniel went out to fetch Merriweather, the doctor who would perform the Wassermann test on Truman and Sylvia.  
  
Truman paced the back porch nervously, listening to the chatter and clatter from the kitchen as Bettina, Sylvia and Marcus washed the dishes. Jerry sat at the far end of the porch, sharpening a pencil with a jack knife.  
  
"You get nervous with blood tests?" Truman asked.  
  
"Oh yeah, everyone does," Jerry said. "It's thinking about it that does the most harm."  
  
"My dad used to tell me, 'Don't think about the test, think about what flavor ice cream you want me to getcha afterward."  
  
"And what about your Mum?"  
  
"Ugh, she was worse. It'd be 'Oh, that doesn't hurt!' and 'Come now, you're a big strong boy!'"  
  
"Yeah, and come to think of it, she was the artiste of the phony illnesses."  
  
"Figures. She could go on and on, and on and on, and on and on about HER little toe aches, but I couldn't complain if my throat was just about swollen shut."  
  
Sylvia came out on the deck at that point. "What did I hear about ice cream?"  
  
"I was just reminiscing about when I was a kid and I had to have a blood test," Truman said, sharing the memory with her.  
  
"Cool! That's a great idea," she said, darting a significant look at Jerry. "You gonna find a way to oblige us?"  
  
"I'll see what we can do," Jerry said.  
  
Bettina stuck her head out the door. "The doctor's in the house."  
  
"Uh oh, time to start thinking about that ice cream," Truman said, getting up and going in, Sylvia at his side, Jerry behind them.  
  
They found Tenniel and Dietrich in the entryway with a small, fortyish man in a non-descript gray suit. Dietrich was just finishing giving the smaller man a final pat down.  
  
"Is he clean?" Jerry asked.  
  
"Yes, " Dietrich said.  
  
"The big question is, are our two young people clean," the newcomer said, half-humorously. Tenniel quickly introduced him to the rest as Dr. Merriweather.  
  
"So you're the famous Truman Burbank who's caused such a stir lately," Merriweather said.  
  
"Oh, I could live without the famous part," Truman said with a smile.  
  
"That's understood," Merriweather replied. "Well then, let's get this started so we don't prolong it."  
  
He set up the temporary lab at the kitchen table. They stuck two chairs together as a makeshift couch. Truman sat down, rolled up his sleeve and turned his face away as Merriweather set to work.  
  
"What flavor you thinking of?" Sylvia asked.  
  
"Uh…it's a toss-up between orange pineapple and…uhhh!….strawberry cheesecake," Truman replied, gritting his teeth.  
  
"Oh, the ice cream trick! I remember that episode," Merriweather said.  
  
Truman looked up at Tenniel, who stood in the kitchen doorway. "Is he really safe?"  
  
"Yes, he's one of our supporters," Tenniel said.  
  
Merriweather taped up Truman's arm and helped him up.  
  
"My turn," Sylvia said. Truman sat at her feet, keeping his eyes on her face as Merriweather set to work. Her eyes kept straying, but Truman moved a little closer, keeping his eyes on her face, which encouraged her to keep her eyes on his.  
  
"What flavor are you thinking of?" he asked.  
  
"I'm not sure…double chocolate…Uh!"  
  
"With hot fudge?"  
  
"You're torturing me," she said, grinning with delight.  
  
"Hot fudge…and whipped cream…and rainbow jimmies…and a cherry on top."  
  
"Drat you, Truman, you're making me hungry and I just had breakfast,' she said, as Merriweather taped up her arm.  
  
"Now I know what you're gonna want us to bring up for lunch," Jerry groaned.  
  
"No reason you shouldn't, except if you're trying to keep off that Montressor goon's radar," Merriweather said. "Celebrate a little. I'll have the results ready by tonight."  
  
"I'll send someone out to fetch them," Tenniel said. "What time you want me to send the courier?"  
  
Merriweather shrugged. "With my work load, I may not be able to get to it till this evening. Send someone about nine this evening."  
  
"That's Dietrich's watch," Tenniel said.  
  
"Looks like I'm elected," Jerry said, sheepishly.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"It's too quiet," Dietrich said, watching the kitchen window during lunch. Bettina and Marcus had been into town, getting Sylvia's ice cream.  
  
"Yeah, our car didn't get chased or rammed," Bettina said.  
  
"The calm before the storm?" Jerry asked, oddly serious. He looked at Dietrich. "You're scared."  
  
"What makes you say zat?" Dietrich asked.  
  
"You're not eating and your accent keeps popping out."  
  
"Did Cristoff want anything?" Bettina asked, peering into the potato salad container.  
  
"He told me he never eats lunch," Tenniel said.  
  
"So he's continuing to be anti-social," Marcus said.  
  
"He had breakfast with us," Sylvia pointed out.  
  
"Yeah, and I actually didn't fight with him," Truman said.  
  
"That's a step in the right direction," Sylvia said.  
  
"What, towards making friends with him?" Truman said, a little sore.  
  
"You might want to make the most of being around him," Tenniel said. "The way things stand, you might have to do your traveling alongside him. We're having a council this afternoon in the living room."  
  
* * * * *   
  
At three o'clock, they sat assembled in the living room, Truman and Sylvia on the couch, Cristoff in an armchair beside them. Jerry and Dietrich on the window seat. Bettina, Marcus and the rest of the crew (about ten men and ten women) sitting on chairs and boxes and hassocks gathered in a rough circle about the table.  
  
"Okay, here's the plan I drew up with Jerry, Dietrich and Bettina's help. I'm bringing the JP here tomorrow evening about six, which means we can move out about six-thirty. After the ceremony, here's the game plan: Marcus: you, Fred, Conrad, Tom, and Sarah are taking the decoy car. You're heading to LAX. Dietrich: you, Jerry, Truman, Cristoff and Sylvia are going to drive northward to Canada by the back roads," Tenniel said. "Everyone who can use a gun is expected to carry one. Make sure you have enough ammunition. We have plenty stored up ahead of time. I don't care what you take, whether it's a derringer or a musket, as long as it shoots."  
  
"How 'bout one where you pull the trigger and a little sign pops out that says 'BANG!!!' on it?" Truman asked.  
  
Everyone laughed.  
  
"I don't think Montressor would find that amusing," Dietrich said. "It might only annoy him."  
  
"Am I expected to carry a gun, 'cause I've…never actually used one," Truman asked, serious now.  
  
"No, that's why the rest of us are going to be armed. You just worry about getting used to the real world," Tenniel said.  
  
"Can I? My grandmother taught me to shoot rattlesnakes," Sylvia said.  
  
"Sure," Tenniel said.  
  
"Might I be allowed to do my part in the defense?" Cristoff asked.  
  
Tenniel looked at Dietrich. "Based on what Dietrich and you have told me, I wouldn't advise it."  
  
"I promise I won't use it unless it's absolutely necessary," Cristoff said. "I have to do this."  
  
"So now you're gonna play the savior after you played God for so many years," Truman grumbled.  
  
"C'mon, give the guy a chance," Jerry said.  
  
Sylvia put her hand on Truman's. "He only wants to help."  
  
"Yeah, help me over a cliff," Truman sneered.  
  
"Truman, you have my word of honor," Cristoff said, raising one hand.  
  
Truman looked Cristoff in the face, looking deep into the other man's gray eyes. He hadn't noticed the troubled look there before.  
  
"All right, all right, he can do it," Truman relented. "As long as he doesn't try anything else funny."  
  
* * * * *   
  
After the council, the group dispersed to make the last preparations, or to rest up, or to go out and fetch last minute supplies. The "security personnel" headed for the garage to prepare the weaponry.  
  
Later still, towards the evening, when Bettina and a few others had gone out to order pizza (Tenniel's idea: they were still celebrating), Truman made himself go up the stairs to the small room at the end of the upstairs hallway.  
  
He paused at the door, hesitated, then drew in a long breath and rapped on the door. He heard a rustle behind it and it opened.  
  
Cristoff looked out at him, a bit surprised. "What brings you up here?"  
  
"I'd like to know why myself," he said. "But…I'd like to know what you meant by your producers wanting you to do the 'M. Night Shyamalan thing'?"  
  
"They used to call it the Hitchcock thing. You know how Hitchcock used to make a walk-on appearance in all of his movies? Shyamalan takes that one step further: He takes a minor if somewhat pivotal role in his movies."  
  
"So why didn't you do that till the very end? Why didn't you step into the little world of your own making and face me like a man?"  
  
"I always said I wanted to remain emotionally detached. But the very thing I sought to avoid is being forced upon me. I've had to take a role in the drama of your life and I have become emotionally involved.  
  
"But to be honest, I've been emotionally involved anyway. I let myself become so depressed after you left, that I almost suicided. I was ready to blow my brains out last night, but fortunately your friend Mr. Hohenzoller came in at just the right moment and stopped me."  
  
"Yeah, you don't want to argue with a guy THAT big if you know what's good for you."  
  
"More than that. He's got something for you that I'm only just learning. He loves you. He's helped you and he keeps helping you even though it's cost him. He's more of a father to you than I've ever been."  
  
"He's a little young to be a father to me; he's more like an older brother…maybe you just have to work on that. Maybe, when all this is over, I can find my real father."  
  
"I'm afraid you might not be able to attempt that. You're too well known."  
  
"I was afraid of that."  
  
"You were right."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I did mess up your life."  
  
"Well, at least you're admitting it."  
  
* * * * *   
  
Downstairs in the basement, Sylvia was folding clean laundry when she heard someone come down the steps. She looked up.  
  
Jerry stood on the bottom step, hands in pockets, leaning against the end of the banister.  
  
"You know you don't have to go through with this, marrying Truman," he said.  
  
"I know what I want and I know what Truman wants: we want to spend the rest of our lives together," she said.  
  
"But are you sure you can handle the stress?" he asked, stepping down.  
  
"I love him. For his sake, I'll hazard anything as long as we have each other."  
  
He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but he quickly closed it.   
  
"But are you sure you're doing the right thing?" he asked at length.  
  
"I'm absolutely sure," she said. "I set this in motion. I chose to tell him what was going on."   
  
"But are you sure you want to go through with this? I know more about Montressor from what Dietrich's told me than you know. I have an idea of what we're getting into. If Montressor's after Truman and if he's as crooked as Dietrich told me, it's reasonable to assume that the goon might have it in for you, too."  
  
"Whatever happens to Truman, wherever he ends up, I want to be there with him."  
  
He stepped up to her, almost toe to toe. "I don't want you to get hurt. Sylvia…I can't say it."  
  
"Say what?" she asked. "What's got into you?" He kept looking away from her; she couldn't meet his eyes dead on. She reached out and grabbed his chin, holding his head still. He tried to slip from her grasp but she got hold of his shoulder with her free hand. Their eyes met for just an instant. She looked into his eyes and found so many emotions there, so snarled up she could barely untangle them: disappointment, longing, stress. Jerry's lips twisted as if he fought to say something or as if he would kiss her.  
  
"Say it," she ordered.  
  
"I can't," he said, with an Anglian "ah".  
  
He broke from her grasp and fled up the stairs.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Later still, Sylvia met Truman on the second floor stairs.  
  
"You okay?" he asked. "You look a little pale."  
  
"Yeah, it's just…Jerry has a crush on me," she said.  
  
"Oh boy, y' know, I was afraid of that. I just got this funny feeling he had something for you, but I didn't let on."  
  
"It's nothing new to me. I knew he'd had something for me before, but I didn't think it would come back. I never did anything to encourage it."  
  
Truman slipped his arms about her waist. "I know you wouldn't." He leaned her head against his chest.  
  
And to speak of the devil, as Truman looked over Sylvia's shoulder, he spotted Jerry approaching the stairs. "Hey, you loverbirds, there's a party with your names on it about to start in the living room," Jerry called up to them.  
  
"Can't miss our own pre-wedding reception," Truman said, releasing Sylvia and leading her downstairs  
  
* * * * *   
  
The group spent much of the evening sharing crazy stories. Even Cristoff, whom Tenniel had prevailed upon to come down, related a few hysterical behind the scenes anecdotes.  
  
"So, Peik, what inspired you to join the TLF?" Cristoff asked at length.  
  
"Aw, you don't want to hear it, and just about everyone else knows it," Jerry said.  
  
"Aw c'mon, be a sport," Truman coaxed. "If you're gonna be keeping an eye on me during this little road trip, I'd like to know whether or not you're really an axe murderer."  
  
"It's a good story anyway," Tenniel said. "Tell it, Peik."  
  
"Well, since the Chief ordered me by my last name, I'd better tell it," Jerry said.  
  
"Ten years ago, I had just finished acting school in Vancouver and done a few bit parts in the theatre and a few commercials. Everyone said I had the makings of a big star, what with my good looks and all—"  
  
"Modest, isn't he?" Dietrich sneered, grinning.  
  
"I'm only telling the truth. One of the casting directors for The Truman Show spotted me and asked me to audition for the part of Dick Legis, a student at Sea Haven High School and later at Sea Haven Community College and the boyfriend of sorts to Lauren Garland."  
  
"Okay, I'm remembering one bit besides the tipping boat incident: You were the goon dancing with Lauren—I mean, Sylvia—and I kept cutting in, and you kept giving me those 'How dare you!' glares," Truman said.  
  
"I remember that—I also remember how hard a character Dick was. I kept trying not to make him too cartoonish, y' know, the atypical rich, handsome young snob."  
  
"Actually, the snobbery was intentional. Part of the back-story on Legis was that his family was having financial troubles and they were trying to maintain their upper class image in the face of losing what was left of the family fortune," Cristoff said.  
  
"Hey, who's telling the story?" Truman cut in.  
  
"Well, after the incident in the college library when Truman and Sylvia almost started something—" Jerry started to say.  
  
"They DID start something!" Sarah, one of the others, yelled from the back of the room.  
  
"Let Jerry tell the story," Tenniel said patiently.  
  
"Well ANYWAY, Cristoff gave me this scene next day in the college cafeteria, where I was supposed to bawl out Truman for trying to take Lauren, aka. Sylvia away from me."  
  
"Oh yeah, and you didn't get very far because I took your glass of tomato juice and poured the whole thing into your lap," Truman said.  
  
"So, not knowing what else to do, I stormed out of the caff in a huff."  
  
"Yeah, and you bumped into Marlon or what's his face on the way out, and he comes to my table and says to me, 'Hey, what's the matter with Dick? He find out about you and Lauren?' So I said he had. So what's his face asks, 'Well, whatcha do? Attack him with a chainsaw?' And I said, no, I poured tomato juice on him. And he says, 'Wow, you oughta get a medal for bravery. His father owns half the county'."  
  
"So anyway," Jerry resumed. "Mose Meyers wanted to do a dramatic scene where Dick and some of his cronies were to jump Truman and clobber him. And Cristoff thought this sounded like a good idea. But I didn't like it one bit. I actually told him I couldn't do it because it didn't seem in keeping with the character. I'd actually defied Cristoff a bit, I'd developed my character a little so that he was really in love with Lauren, and that he was just pretending he really wanted her as just an ornament for his arm. Needless to say, Cristoff was displeased with me, so even though my contract was still good, he ordered me off the show, explaining away my character's disappearance by saying my father had taken me out because he was displeased with my marks."  
  
"What was really happening was that you were swaying certain areas of the audience away from Truman, and we wanted to avoid needless competition," Cristoff said.  
  
"Simply put: the female viewers were losing interest in Truman and they drooling over Dick Legis," Tenniel said.  
  
"That, alas, was my last major acting role. If you displeased the guy in charge of the till now largest, longest running network show, the mighty TV god Criss Toff, your resume is toast. Burnt toast. I've had bit parts in a few low-budget movies since then, but nothing major. I worked as a security guard in a few warehouses, which is how I met Dietrich. We worked in the same neighborhood; I got a job at the Plains Box Company factory, which also put me in contact with the people of the TLF. Tenniel told me they needed a big, strong guy to work as a bodyguard if they ever got Truman out, so I told them I knew one guy who'd fit the bill. So that's how Dietrich came to join the gang.  
  
"I've been in and out of apartments—mostly out, hence why I was living out of my truck for a while. California prices are bad, but they're nothing compared to Canada prices. You think stuff is priced high here compared to the way things are priced in 'Sea Haven'? Wait till we get to Canada and you see the prices there. You'll know you're in the real world."  
  
The group fell thoughtfully silent for several long minutes.  
  
"Y' know, I don't know if I'm just making my brain dizzy, but I got to thinking: y' know how when you're a kid and you have that funny thought that your life is like a TV show, that there's something bigger than your world out there, watching your every movement?" Truman said.  
  
"That's probably what starts some people on the road to finding God," Tenniel said. "But in your case, it was different."  
  
"Yeah, it turned out to be literal, not just a metaphor," Truman said. "Weird… It just makes me think: all the memories that I've got, y' know, growing up. They're all fake. I mean…who am I? Where did I really come from? I'm nobody."  
  
"No. you're somebody. And even if those memories weren't really real, they still affected who you are and who you became. You're much more than the sum total of your memories," Tenniel said.  
  
Sylvia got up. "I need some fresh air. You want to come out with me, Truman?"  
  
"Sure. Of course," he said, following her towards the door.  
  
Jerry looked at Dietrich. "Who's watch is it?"  
  
"It's mine," Dietrich said, following the young couple out. "You have that courier job to do."  
  
"Right. Well, I'll just get my other jacket and walk out with the three of you," Jerry said. He went for the coat closet and came back with a long black leather jacket similar to Dietrich's except it was smaller.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"You worried about tomorrow? You seem nervous," Sylvia said as she and Truman walked hand in hand in the darkened back yard. Dietrich followed them at a discrete distance, close enough to intervene when necessary, but not so close that he overheard them.  
  
"I think it's just reality has really set in," Truman said. "I mean, is my name really Truman Burbank? Is my notoriety gonna compromise us when we get to Canada? What's gonna happen next?"  
  
"Tru, we'll worry about that when we have to. Right now, we've got a future together to look forward to. We're getting married. We'll take it one step of the way at a time."  
  
"That's all we can do anyway," he admitted, slipping his arm around her.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Merriweather's house blazed with lights when Jerry pulled his truck into the drive. Every light in the house must have been on. Something wasn't right.  
  
He went up to the front door and found it ajar. He drew his gun from the waistband of his trousers and went in, walking quietly and scanning the entryway with both eyes and ears.  
  
Someone had ransacked the house. Tables lay overturned, papers scattered about, bookcases emptied, pictures pushed askew on the walls. He went down to the basement, where Merriweather had a small lab.  
  
This at least appeared unravaged. The door was still locked. Jerry picked the lock with a length of wire in his pocket, then pushed open the door.  
  
The lab looked untouched, eerily so, at first glance. He looked around for anything that looked like the lab results.  
  
He found splashes of fresh blood on the floor. On one of the workbenches stood a computer monitor on standby, the tower missing.  
  
Oh God, where was Merriweather? Where were the results?  
  
He noticed a framed photo on the wall, of Merriweather and his late wife. It hung slightly crooked, not slung askew, but just out of plumb with the wall. Jerry took it down.  
  
A business-sized envelope stuck out of the back of the picture. He pulled it out and opened it.  
  
Lab results: Burbank, Truman  
  
Lab results: Thomas, Sylvia  
  
Jerry breathed a sigh of relief and stuck the results into his pocket. Then he had a second thought. He took the envelope out and unzipped the lining of his jacket. He slid the envelope in and rezipped the lining. The leather creaked when he moved, no one would notice any extra rustles.  
  
He was just stepping outside, onto the stoop, down to the flagstone path, when two figures lunged out of the bushes and grabbed him. Someone threw a heavy leather coat over his head. Someone else held a gun to his spine.  
  
"Don't struggle and we won't plug yah," said a man's sneery voice close to his ear.  
  
They dragged him toward a waiting vehicle and shoved him into the back seat. They didn't remove the coat from his head, but he still heard the clink of someone aiming a gun at him, probably from the front seat.  
  
"Who are you? Where are you taking me?" he asked.  
  
"The less you talk, the better," Sneery voice said next to him.  
  
They traveled a zigzag course he could barely trace. At length, they stopped. Still keeping the coat over his head, his captors led him out and up a winding staircase.  
  
They entered a room and passed along a hallway. His guards stopped. Still holding him, they yanked the coat from his head.  
  
He stood in a richly appointed bedroom, a boudoir really. Purple hangings covered the walls. A black and silver brocade curtain separated the boudoir from the bedroom proper, but it hung pulled back slightly, revealing one carven post of a richly appointed bed.  
  
Before the curtain stood a low-slung divan covered in purple brocade on which gracefully sprawled a small man in a scarlet damask dressing gown, open almost to his waist. An Asian girl knelt at his feet, buffing his toenails.  
  
The stranger raised his eyes to Jerry and his guards. The thin skin just covering the bones beneath his too-thin face had an olive cast to it, but a patch of dead white skin surrounded his right eye, the iris of which was red, contrasting with the other, which was jet black, like his hair except for one tuft over his albinist eye.  
  
Other patches of dead white skin showed on his flesh: on the back of the hand that lay on the arm of the divan, on one thigh, which showed through a slit in the skirts of his robe. Most of his naked breast had the same deathly pallor, except for a large reddish black birthmark shaped almost like a knife wound in the exact center of the albino patch, over his heart.  
  
"Ngila, if you're finished, you can get you kit and your derriere out of here," the strange creature said. The girl collected her things and went out without raising her eyes. The stranger regarded them without blinking. "Well done, Sweyk. You brought him here in one piece. Just borrow the gun he's hiding."  
  
The two gorillas at Jerry's sides tore off his jacket so hard one of the buttons flew off. The one on the left, the one with the sneery voice, yanked Jerry's gun from his belt and stuffed it into his own pocket.  
  
"The rest of you get going," the weird creature said. "I need to have a private moment with Mr. Jerry Peik."  
  
The goons went out submissively, leaving Jerry alone with the other.  
  
"Who do you think you are?" Jerry snapped.  
  
"Temper, temper! It's as nippy as it's beautiful," the stranger drawled. "I'm the famous demon Azor Montressor whose death you've yelled for."  
  
"What do you want of me?"  
  
Montressor leaned forward. "Information. Merriweather was of no help to us. He conveniently died of the heart attack his own doctor had been warning him about, right when my gentlemen were asking him a few simple questions. Perhaps you could assist me."  
  
"So?"  
  
"Where is Truman Burbank? Where are you hiding him?"  
  
"I can't tell you that."  
  
"Can't or won't, there is a difference beyond mere semantics."  
  
"What's it to you?"  
  
"It means everything to me, Peik. Come now, make it easy for us and tell us where he is. I don't want to have to damage you to get the information out."  
  
"Okay, tell me this: what did you do to Merriweather?"   
  
Montressor laughed a harsh laugh like a knife dragged over stones. "Do you expect me to tell you that?"  
  
"I'd just like to know your methods. Simple enough."  
  
"Then we'll just have to show you how we do it," Montressor snarled.  
  
The door burst open behind him. Before Jerry could turn, something like a small explosive cracked. A stinging pain shot into his spine. He had just enough time to realize he'd been shot with a tranquilizer gun when the drug started to take effect. His legs went weak of a sudden and he collapsed into an armchair nearby. His head started to ache, then it grew light. The lights in the room softened and turned fuzzy. Sounds echoed, muffled, as if they came through water. His eyelids went slack over his eyes and fell shut. He lifted them, but it took an act of the will to fight the heightened pull of gravity on them. His will fighting to keep his tongue still in his head, his body surrendered to the drug. He slid into a weird, sensuous sleep which seemed to last for hours.  
  
A colorful shadow he realized was Montressor hovered over him balanced on the arm of the chair. The parti-colored shadow sank over him, covering him, just touching him.  
  
"So beautiful when he's woozy," Montressor murmured. "Like the first time I ever saw you…Is it ready yet? No? Hurry up; he's coming around. Must have a better metabolism than we thought."  
  
Why isn't he asking me any questions? Jerry thought, closing his teeth on his tongue to keep from saying this thought out loud.  
  
Montressor's face hovered just millimeters over his. "Young man, has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?"  
  
"Don't know…maybe yes," Jerry mumbled.  
  
"Good. If you didn't know, you'd be of no use to me. It adds spice to your nature." The creature's face moved in. He felt Montressor's hot breath fan the side of his face. The weird creature suddenly thrust the tip of his tongue into his ear. Jerry shuddered with discomfort, stifling a moan of disgust in his throat.  
  
Montressor retracted. "What was that? Pain? Or something else?" He moved away. "All right, put it back on him."  
  
Jerry slid back into that strange sleep. He heard sounds and he smelled scents, the heady, lush scents of incense, roses and patchouli in Montressor's chambers, the rank, animal smell of the coat thrown over his head, but he sense little else.  
  
He awoke after what felt like hours, finding himself in the front seat of the Land Rover, still parked in Merriweather's driveway. His back ached, but he could feel his legs again. He moved them tentatively. It was as if nothing had happened.  
  
His Luger. It wasn't in his belt.  
  
It lay on the dashboard in front of him, a note on black paper written in lavender ink lay under it.  
  
Here's your trinket back, gorgeous. Can't imagine a pretty little thing like you making use of it on anyone, though.  
  
Take care of yourself,  
  
A. M.  
  
He checked the car, made sure nothing was missing. He felt his jacket, making sure he could still feel the envelope there. He even took it out and checked to make sure it hadn't been disturbed. The lab results were intact.  
  
He started the truck and headed back to the cottage by a circuitous route. At first he was afraid the drug would have some adverse effect on his driving, but it was as if it had never happened.  
  
Tenniel met him at the door to the cottage. "What took so long? Did Merriweather get chatting?"  
  
"No, worse," Jerry said. "Montressor must have kidnapped Merriweather: the doctor wasn't there. But Montressor's goons still were. They jumped me, tried to kidnap me, tried to get me to talk, but I didn't."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"I'm not sure of anything: they stuck me with something, but I think it just made me woozy. My head's clear already."  
  
"Go get some sleep. I'll take your watch," Tenniel said.  
  
  
  
To be continued… 


	6. The Passionate Elopement

+J.M.J.+  
  
Through the Door in the Sky  
  
By Matrix Refugee  
  
Author's Note:  
  
I do try to avoid abandoning this fic for long stretches of time, but it's been a doozy to execute. I know where I want it to go, but getting it onto the page has been hard; finding the time has been one challenge, escpecially since I had a verrryy temporary temp job that lasted all of two days when I was told it was supposed to last two weeks. Hopefully the fic'll pick up from here on.  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I. WARNING: character death. Believe me, I did try to avoid it, but Montressor, as always, had other ideas.  
  
But first, the mock-up movie credits; Hey, I'm doing this fic…  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
Featuring  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
And Themselves  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank   
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
* * * * * *   
  
Chapter VI: The Passionate Elopement  
  
Someone shook Truman's bed at eight the next morning. He opened his eyes and looked up to find Jerry standing over him, grinning mischievously.  
  
"Hey, I was having a nice dream," Truman groused.  
  
"Time to get up and face reality," Jerry returned.  
  
"Where's Dietrich?" Truman said, throwing back the covers.  
  
"Oh, he had a few last minute preparations to take care of before you make your second big escape," Jerry said. Truman noticed Jerry's face looked a little drawn and dark circles showed under his eyes, as if he'd had a rough night.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
On the stairs, Truman nearly collided with Sylvia "Ahhh!!! Get away! Get away!" He squawked, swatting at her as if he swatted at a bunch of flies.  
  
"What?" she demanded, puzzled. "Oh." It dawned on her. She covered her face with her hand. "They just sent me to tell you there's a meeting in the main room."  
  
"But someone forgot the bride and groom can't see each other the morning of the wedding," he said, leading her down the stairs, holding her hand between thumb and forefinger.  
  
The crew had gathered in the front room when they got there. Tenniel went over the general plan, who was going in what vehicle. "You got your route planned?" he asked Jerry and Dietrich.  
  
"I finished marking the maps this morning," Dietrich said.  
  
Jerry tapped his forehead. "Got it all up here," he said.  
  
"Hope it stays there," Marcus said.  
  
"I can handle it: I've got a photographic memory," Jerry said.  
  
"Just remember to load the film," Truman twitted. The laughter from the crew dispelled the tension starting to collect.  
  
"We've had to move up our departure time," Tenniel said. "We'd intended you all to leave at dusk, but you're going to have to leave after the ceremony, which we've moved up to noon."  
  
"Can I ask why?" Truman asked.  
  
Tenniel looked at Jerry significantly; the younger man nodded.  
  
"There's been a security leak: Montressor captured Merriweather last night," Jerry said. "He also cornered me, tried to get me to talk. But I kept my mouth shut."  
  
"How come you're in one piece then?" Bettina demanded, incredulous.  
  
Jerry smiled humorlessly. "My fatal gift of beauty served me well for a change: Montressor's smitten with me now."  
  
"God preserve you from THAT!" Dietrich groaned.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *   
  
While Dietrich and Tenniel went into town to fetch the justice of the peace, Jerry brought Truman, with Sylvia tagging along out to the back yard to give him a quick course in gun use. Of course on the first few tries, Truman hit nearly everything else in sight but the coffee can on a tree branch Jerry had set up as a target--he almost clipped Jerry at one point--but finally...  
  
Glonk! the can dropped from the branch.  
  
"Next time you use that, remember you might have to shoot at a target that's shooting back," Jerry warned.  
  
"I.E. Montressor?" Truman asked, clumsily sliding the gun back into the holster strapped to his shoulder under his jacket. "Tell me what he looks like so I can make sure I get the right guy."  
  
Jerry rolled his eyes. "Errrr, where to start? He's short, he's thin, and he's dark except where his skin is blotched with albino skin, dead white. He's got one black eye and one red eye. Verry ugly, and the albino stuff doesn't help."  
  
"Fell off the ugly tree and hit every branch coming down, eh? He shouldn't be too hard to miss. I just hope I reeeally don't miss, put him out of his misery...and put us out of our misery," Truman said.  
  
"Dietrich would agree with you," Jerry agreed.  
  
* * * * * * * *   
  
The sky had clouded over and drops of rain started to spat intermittently against the window panes of the front room. This made little difference for the wedding, since they were having it indoors in the front room.  
  
"But isn't it bad luck for it to rain on the wedding day?" Truman asked Bettina. "That's what...I was told before."  
  
"No, actually it's good luck if it rains a little on your wedding day," she said.  
  
"And we could use that," he agreed.  
  
Just at noon, he sat on the top of the stairway, waiting. Sylvia was downstairs with the others, getting ready. He clasped in one pocket the two rings Bettina had scared up for them.  
  
He suddenly felt nervous, wondering if this was the right thing to do. What about Meryl, wasn't she still...? No, no, that wasn't real...that was never real. That first wedding, the bit splashy affair Meryl had insisted on and "Mother" had allowed, that was just one big sham, just a farce to sell designer wedding gowns and junk like that. This, for all its simplicity, was real.  
  
"Truman, are you ready?" Dietrich's husky baritone asked from the bottom of the stairs.  
  
Truman looked down and rose. "Nope, I didn't chicken out and run away yet," he said, going down to meet him. Dietrich stood just at the bottom of the stairs, clad in his long black leather jacket, the skirts hiding the holster strapped to his right thigh. He put a large, brotherly hand on Truman's shoulder and gave him one of his rare warm smiles as he led him into the front room.  
  
The justice of the peace, Marion Kramer, a short, stocky woman stood before the picture window, Tenniel at her side, Jerry behind them, watching the window, clad in a jacket almost identical to Dietrich's. Truman stepped up before her hesitantly, his eye scanning the group in the room, looking for Sylvia. He glanced back at Dietrich, who squeezed his shoulder gently and released him, staying just behind him.  
  
"Never thought I'd live to see the day when I'd meet you in person, Mr. Burbank," Ms. Kramer said. "But if someone told me I'd be officiating at your real wedding, I'd question their sanity, or mine."  
  
"God preserve me from the fans!" Truman groaned.  
  
A rustle rose at the back of the room. Bettina led in Sylvia, clad in a white blouse and a cream-colored skirt, her hair pulled back with a few flowers tucked in. This was as simple a wedding as you could get, and she was dressed more for travelling than for her own wedding, but Truman was not about to complain. In his eyes, he had never seen her so beautiful, since that night on the beach when she had tried to tell him the truth.  
  
Sylvia smiled at him as she came up to join him. The last of the uncertainty left his heart.  
  
A few moments later, after Truman and Sylvia had exchanged vows, Ms. Kramer looked over the gathering, pausing for effect.  
  
"By the powers vested in me by the State of California, Burbank County, I pronounce you man and wife." She looked at Truman, a faint sparkle in her eye. "You may kiss the bride."  
  
Truman leaned down slightly to Sylvia as they drew each other close. He kissed her feeling her quiver with excitement, but she relaxed under his touch.  
  
A sigh rose from the gathering, quickly drowned out by cheers and applause.  
  
Tenniel raised his hands for quiet. "It's time we left. We don't know what lies ahead for any of us. But may God--however you see Him--be with all of you."  
  
They filed out of the room. The decoy group went out first. They'd have a good twenty minute head start on the van carrying Truman. With Dietrich and Jerry on either side of him, Sylvia and Cristoff at their heels, Truman went out into the rain, which had started falling in earnest now, dodging the rain drops on the way to Jerry's van.  
  
They piled in and headed our, heading roughly north east, away from the city and into a less thickly settled area, Jerry at the wheel, Dietrich next to him in the front seat, Truman in the back seat between Sylvia and Cristoff.  
  
"Why's everyone so somber?" Jerry asked, twitting. "I mean, that was a wedding back there, not a funeral."  
  
"If I let out a peep Montressor'll hear me," Truman said in a "scared widdle kid" voice.  
  
"Almost seems that way," Jerry said. "Seems like the kind of guy you might or not want to introduce to your worst enemy, depending on how badly you wanted to get rid of them."  
  
"From the sound of things, I don't think you'd want that," Truman said. "If I wouldn't survive meeting him, you wouldn't survive it, unless you're made of steel or something, but even then I don't think you'd hold out. But either way, the world would be rid of one ugly face, make way for mine."  
  
"The public's seen enough of that, thanks to me," Cristoff said, trying to sound humorous but somehow not succeeding.  
  
"Dang," Jerry muttered, his eye on one of the dashboard gauges.  
  
  
  
"What?" Dietrich asked.  
  
"Oh, in our haste to be off, I forgot to gas this thing up."  
  
"How much gas do we have left?" Dietrich asked.  
  
"Uh, hopefully enough to get to the next gas station," Jerry replied.  
  
"Oh boy, this sounds encouraging," Truman groaned.  
  
They came upon a small station at the side of the road. As they started to pull off, Truman covered his face with a tabloid magazine (with his picture on the cover, no less) and settled back pretending to snooze.  
  
  
  
Jerry started to get out, but Dietrich spoke up. "Let me do this," he said.  
  
"Okay, but just watch your back out there," Jerry said.  
  
The door opened and Dietrich got out. They heard him rummage about for a second, then silence tempered by rain drumming on the roof.  
  
A black sedan suddenly plowed into the lot.  
  
Something cracked, three small explosions in succession. Truman jumped, the magazine falling off. More gunshots shattered the steady beat of the rain. The sedan screeched away.  
  
Jerry flung open his door and bolted out, running for the cashier's booth.  
  
"What was that?" Sylvia cried.  
  
"I'm about to go find out," Truman said, climbing over Sylvia's lap and reaching to open the door.  
  
Cristoff grabbed his arm. "Truman, don't go out there," he ordered.  
  
Truman shook him off. "Don't tell me what to do." And he rushed out into the rain.  
  
Dietrich sat on the wet pavement, slumped back against the cashier's booth. His gun had slipped from his hand, and a huge red smear had trailed down the wall, where he had slid. Jerry was helping him to lie down.  
  
"Dietrich," Truman said, sinking onto his haunches, his eye on the wounds in the big man's torso, which bled steadily. He slid his arm under Dietrich's head, ignoring the blood that got on his sleeve and the rain that beat down on the three of them. He started to withdraw, wondering if he only made it worse.  
  
"Leave your arm," Dietrich said.  
  
"I don't want to make you pain worse."  
  
"Doesn't matter: mortal wounds...no pain."  
  
"Please don't talk like that."  
  
"It's true... the awful truth..."  
  
"Truman, we gotta get out of here, they may come back," Jerry said, tugging on his arm.  
  
"Listen to him," Dietrich said. "Kiss Sylvia for me...when I'm gone..." Then in a faint voice "Mutter Gottes....hilfst mir in das Stunde vom Tot...[Mother of God, help me in the hour of death]" His eyes rolled back in their sockets. The blood flowing from the wounds in his chest stopped, washed away by the rain.  
  
Truman felt the full weight of Dietrich's slack body lean on him. He laid him down on the wet ground, looking down into that lightless face.  
  
Jerry grabbed him by the back of his coat and dragged him to the van. "Leave him, he'd want us to go on."  
  
"We can't--" Truman pleaded, looking back.  
  
"LEAVE HIM!" Jerry snapped, opening the rear door and shoving Truman in.  
  
They pulled out of the yard slowly and headed down the road. But as if from nowhere, a black sedan plowed in behind them.  
  
"Sylvia, get in the front. You may have to steer: We got company," Jerry said. Sylvia obliged. "Truman, get down."  
  
Truman dove onto the floor, figuring that was the safest place as any, out of the range of the windows. Cristoff leaned over him covering him.   
  
The wind grew louder as Jerry opened the driver's side window. Shots whizzed past them. Truman hazarded a peek up. Jerry leaned out the window, and fired behind them several times.  
  
A shot smashed the driver's side mirror Jerry had been using. He dove back, avoiding the flying glass.  
  
  
  
"Sylvia, we're coming up to an intersection, the road that follows the river," Jerry said. "I want you to drive straight for the river. At the last second, swerve her to the right."  
  
"Are you crazy?" she demanded.  
  
"I've got an idea...Okay... Floor it! NOW!"  
  
Truman peered up over the back of the seat in time to see them heading straight for the guard rail fringing a river. Just before they hit, they swerved to the right.  
  
He looked back to see the black sedan hurtle toward the guard rail. It hit the fence and went over the embankment. The car hit the water with a loud splash and sank, nose first.  
  
"I sure hope Montressor was in that car and he doesn't know how to swim," Truman said. "Not nice of me to say, was it."  
  
"No, but I had similar thoughts," Cristoff admitted, helping him up onto the seat.  
  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
They drove in silence the rest of the day. A pall heavier than the clouds overhead had settled in.  
  
Well past nightfall, they pulled over at a faceless motel and put up for the night.  
  
"Dietrich had a long talk with me this morning, told me that if anything happened to him I was to tell you his whole story, what you don't know," Jerry said, as they mulled over their half-eaten supper. "I'll keep it as PG-13 as possible, which is no easy task."  
  
"Just censor the parts dealing with Montressor," Truman said.  
  
"Dietrich, or rather Amon Tesh, was born somewhere in southern Germany, working class family, dirt poor. He was the youngest of six kids, with a shiftless drug addict father and a mother who put up with it, even selling herself to support her husband's habit. Amon ran away from home at age sixteen, went to Berlin, worked a lot of nothing jobs, none of which worked for him, so he was forced to sell himself on the street, which was how Montressor found him. Story has it, Montressor gave Amon his weight in gold as an invitation to work for him: mind you, that would have been less than it is now, but it still would have been a princely sum. Amon was half-starving, and the pay he was promised was good, plus he wanted to go into acting anyway. He just didn't know what kind of acting it entailed.  
  
"Montressor established Amon as his companion, trained him up, turned a guttersnipe into a prince, in his estimation. But the attention and the support came at a price: Montressor needed, as he later told the publicists, a throwback to the old Nazi propaganda poster image of the Nordic youth for a series of racist porno films he was filming over here. At first Amon was appalled, but he was told time and again if he didn't comply, he would be turned out onto the street again, in a foreign country.  
  
"One film, late in Amon's career, featured the gang rape of a Jewish girl. But Amon refused to comply, not because of his orientation, but because he'd had enough. Montressor had one of his henchmen give Amon 'a little talk' in another room, but from my understanding, the goon never came out alive. Amon later told me he only acted in self-defense, but Montressor made sure the papers heard that Amon Tesh had killed the other man in cold blood. The court sentenced Amon to five years for involuntary manslaughter.  
  
"Amon cleaned up. He made himself right with the All Mighty; with the help of an American lawyer, he had his record expunged and got his citizenship, changed his name to Dietrich Hohenzoller, altered his appearance so Montressor would never know it was him. He enrolled in the police academy, but he never was able to qualify, so he settled as a private investigator, specializing in finding missing persons."  
  
They sat in silence a long time. Truman sighed. "I just wish he could be here now. He was the first friend I ever made, the first real friend."  
  
"And he was the best you could have," Jerry said. "Not many guys woud have sacrificed themselves the way he did. Even when he was morally at his lowest, he still helped others. He gave away most of what he made when he worked for Montressor. I think that's one reason why Montressor started to hate him. He wanted Amon to be as low as he was, but Amon just didn't give in to that.  
  
"One last thing, and even he was embarassed to admit it to me when he told me what to tell you in case he didn't make it for some reason. He had a crush on you, Truman. It was never more than that, but he couldn't deny these feelings existed. And they developed: He had compassion for you. He knew what it's like to be hemmed in against you will, without even really knowing quite what was going on."  
  
"But why did it have to end like this?" Truman said.  
  
Sylvia leaned between the seats and took Truman's hands in both of hers. "Tru, Dietrich gave his life so your life could go on. Not many people would do that. He may not have had the most honorable life. I knew him well enough to know he'd be the first to admit to that. But he was a man of honor."  
  
That night, Truman and Sylvia shared the same bed, but it didn't go beyond that. With Dietrich gone, it didn't seem to right thing to do. Cristoff and Jerry kept watch at the window, dividing up the night between them. Now that Dietrich had been taken, they had to shoulder his share of the watch.  
  
* * * * * * * * *   
  
They drove for most of the next day, passing it in silence, Cristoff resting, riding shotgun with Jerry, Truman and Sylvia sitting close together in the back.  
  
About sundown, they passed into Nevada, where they put up for the night at the Desert Star Motel.  
  
"I guess Cristoff and I had better cut you some slack tonight, let you have some time alone," Jerry said to Truman.  
  
"We weren't in the mood last night," Truman admitted. "I don't know if it would be right, what with Dietrich gone."  
  
"If he were here, he'd want you to; I think he'd want you to do what you would have done if he had made it this far," Jerry said.  
  
"Besides, we both saw you and Sylvia holding hands in the backseat this afternoon," Cristoff said, heading outside.  
  
"Well, when you think about it, it might be the best way I could assert my independence from the mighty TV god Criss Toff," Truman said, giving Sylvia a mischievous grin.  
  
"And then some," she said, turning down the covers on one of the beds.  
  
* * * * * * * * *   
  
Jerry stepped outside and pulled one of the iron lawn chairs--the kind with a seashell design on the back that leaves a mark on your back even through a shirt--and sat down opposite Cristoff, who sat in a similar chair on the other side of the doorway.  
  
"You never told us, why did you put the brakes on the Truman/Sylvia relationship?" Jerry asked, loosening the gun in his holster.  
  
"I'd think you'd know the answer to that, what with all the books that were written on the show," Cristoff said.  
  
"Never read any of them, I'm afraid," Jerry said.  
  
"I could see what Sylvia thought and felt about Truman. If you recall, I wanted all my actors to remember they were just actors in a realistic dramedy. I felt she was taking it far too seriously."  
  
"But you didn't take human nature into consideration," Jerry pointed out.  
  
"No, I didn't. That was a variable I forgot to include in the calculation," Cristoff admitted. He regarded Jerry sidewise. "Why do I have the feeling you're on to something else?"  
  
"You're keyed up from keeping an eye out for Montressor," Jerry said.  
  
"You had feelings for Sylvia. You wanted her. There's a part of you that wants to set Truman adrift and let Montressor catch him."  
  
"Cristoff, I got molested by Montressor. I wouldn't subject my worst enemy to that."  
  
"All right, if Sylvia hadn't tried to tell Truman about the real world, your character would have married Sylvia."  
  
"EEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!" Jerry groaned  
  
Cristoff regarded this reaction witha sober smile. "Why do you have the feeling you're just acting?"  
  
"I'm not," Jerry said.  
  
Cristoff tilted his hat over his eyes and settled down in his chair. "I'm still not convinced, Peik."  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Jerry leaned back in his chair, listening to the night sounds, crickets chirping in the grass, the saw buzz of a far away cicada, a car swishing by on the highway, a television nearby. He recognized the themes song to "The Truman Show".  
  
Then he heard more sounds, coming out through the window behind his head: yelps of delight, giggles, bedsprings creaking. He closed his ears to it, but the sounds came uninvited.  
  
Tears started from the corners of his eyes, but he managed to force them back. They didn't have to hear him and he couldn't afford to lose focus.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * *   
  
"Hoo!" Truman breathed, afterward.  
  
"Was she as good?" Sylvia asked, oddly innocent.   
  
"Who? Meryl or whatever her name was? No...it wasn't real. Not like this...not like this."  
  
They cuddled together for awhile. Truman dozed off first. Sylvia nestled her head over his heart, listening to its steady beat. He was right: this was real.  
  
Dimly, as she fell asleep, she heard Jerry and Cristoff come in.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
Jerry took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a chair before sitting down to keep watch. He watched the window, keeping just out of its range, his hand on the stock of his gun.  
  
Cristoff sighed in his sleep, but Jerry hardly took note: the sounds outside mattered more.  
  
Headlights flashed across the window. Jerry leaned forward to get a better look. Two non-descript stocky guys about middle height got out of a Lexus SUV that had pulled up, lugging a large box between them. Jerry overheard them talking. He broke out in a cold sweat: one of the voices definately matched Sweyk's.  
  
He got up and nudged Cristoff, letting him know it was his turn to keep watch. But even as he rested, Jerry kept one eye open.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * *   
  
At dawn, Truman felt someone nudge his shoulder, but he figured it was Sylvia nestling against him. He turned over and fell asleep.  
  
He dimly heard water running, but took no notice of it. A shadow stepped close to the bed.  
  
SPLOOK!!!  
  
Water splashed all over him, drenching him, the pillows, the mattress, everything. Hearing Syliva laughing, Truman jerked upright and looked up.  
  
Jerry stood over the bed, holding the ice bucket upside down over him. He set it down on the night stand with a bang.  
  
"Hey, you're supposed to play the pranks on the honeymoon couple on their wedding night, not the morning after," Truman said.  
  
"That wasn't a prank: I've been shaking you a whole bloody fifteen minutes. You'll have to continue the honeymoon when we get to Bear Track," Jerry said.  
  
"Sorry, I guess I got too cozy," Truman said, reaching for his pants and pulling them on before he headed for the bathroom, Jerry at his heels. "What, checking to make sure no one put a bomb in the bathtub?"  
  
"Look, we have to get out of here quick, so just throw some water on your face and take care of nature," Jerry said.  
  
"Can't I even shave?"  
  
Jerry slammed down a newspaper on the edge of the sink, showing the missing persons photo. "It's better if you don't." He pointed at the picture. "That's what they're looking for, a clean-shaven guy. Let the stubble grow till we're over the border." Truman noticed Jerry hadn't shaved either.  
  
"Yes sir, general sir," Truman said with a mock salute.  
  
Sylvia had gathered their things in the meantime. "Jerry, want me to load the truck?" she called.  
  
"I'll do it," Cristoff offered.  
  
"No, either we all stay in or we all go out together," Jerry said.  
  
"Why, what's going on?" Sylvia asked.  
  
Jerry glanced out the front window. "We got company. They showed up late; I think they're still asleep. If we're gonna go, we're going now."  
  
They finished packing and went out to the truck in a group, leaving before their neighbors did.  
  
After a mile, Jerry pulled off into the bushes and studied the map, making some changes to the route. "I might have to change it again," he said.  
  
"What I want to know is how they seem to know exactly where we are. It's like they got us bugged," Truman said. He eyed Cristoff. "You know anything about this?"  
  
"No," Cristof replied.  
  
"Bugged," Jerry repeated. He tore the top button off his jacket and studied the black disk. He pried at it.  
  
Inside was a tiny wireless camera. He looked at Cristoff. "Montressor's got your technology."  
  
"Oh God," Sylvia said, clasping Truman's arm tighter.  
  
Truman looked at Cristoff, suspicion clenching his heart...  
  
To be continued.... 


	7. The Mad CrossCountry Dash

+J.M.J.+  
  
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
Author's note: I realized a glaring error I've been putting in the mock movie credits, meaning I had to go back and edit the earlier chapters, which also messed up the formatting (which I'll have to fix via another computer). Pretend you haven't seen that glaring error!  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I.  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
  
  
Featuring  
  
  
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer  
  
  
  
Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
And as Themselves  
  
  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
* * * * *  
  
Chapter VII: The Mad Cross Country Drive  
  
"Get out of the car," Truman ordered. He looked Cristoff in the eye even as he fumbled the gun out of the holster under his jacket.  
  
Sylvia tried to put her hand on Truman's shoulder but he pulled away from her. "Truman, you aren't going to do that."  
  
"I am doing this," he retorted, then to Cristoff, "Now get out!" He drew the gun free of the holster.  
  
"Cardinal rule of gun use, number one: Never point a gun at anyone unless you fully intend to use it," Jerry cut in, his accent more London than Toronto.  
  
"And that's exactly what I intend to do," Truman said, leveling the weapon at Cristoff. "Get out of the car!"  
  
Cristoff had frozen in place, but he meekly got out, Truman following him. As they walked away from the car, the older man glanced over his shoulder, his face utterly devoid of expression.  
  
"Truman, you don't want to kill me," Cristoff said.  
  
"Shut *UP*!" Truman snapped, aiming the gun at a point between Cristoff's shoulders as he edged him toward a rusting wire fence by the roadside.  
  
"It's not going to change anything for the better if you kill me. That's just what Montressor would want you to do."  
  
"How do I know if you're not really Montressor? I'm not even sure what's real any more."  
  
  
  
"I assure you, Truman, I'm not Azor Montessor."  
  
"That's just what *YOU'RE* saying! Why should I believe that? You made a lie out of my life for thirty years."  
  
They'd backed up to the fence by now. Cristoff turned toward Truman, his back against the wires, and looked up at him, his face slack with resignation.  
  
He raised his eyes to Truman's. "I'm not lying to you now, son."  
  
Truman felt the gun tremble in his hands. He realized his hands were trembling, nearly losing their grip on the gun stock. "What? What kind of excuse is that?"  
  
Their eyes met. A glimmer of regret showed in Cristoff's eyes. "It's true. I know I've been a sick bastard of a father to you, but I was afraid to get too close to you, afraid I'd mess you up. But I did anyway."  
  
"Well, thanks for noticing, but it's too little too late." Truman tried tightening his grip on the gunstock, but his palm had started sweating. "I've had enough lies."  
  
"It's true. I couldn't just throw you into the spotlight the moment you were born, so I found four other women who were giving birth about the same time Alyssa was due, used this as a cover." Cristoff let out a terse chuckle utterly devoid of humor. "I guess I'm the only man who can honestly say he's seen every moment of his son's life."  
  
"If you were so devoted to me, why didn't you ever step in till the very end?" Truman demanded, hardly noticing that the gun had started to sink.  
  
"I was concerned. It was just the wrong kind of concern used the wrong way," Cristoff said.  
  
"Concerned? Then why did you sell me out to Montressor with that button camera?!"  
  
"I honestly don't know how that camera ended up on Jerry's jacket in the first place," Cristoff replied.  
  
Truman let the gun sink. "You better be telling me the truth this time, because if I ever catch you lying to me again, I *will* kill you," Truman warned.  
  
He fumbled the gun back into the holster, half expecting Cristoff would try taking it from him. They headed back to the truck.  
  
"I'm pretty sure that's how it happened," Jerry was saying to Sylvia as they returned.  
  
"How what happened?" Truman asked.  
  
"How that camera got onto Jerry's jacket," Sylvia said.  
  
"A button came off my jacket when Montressor's goons tore it off me after they'd captured me," Jerry said. "They must have sewn it on while they had me drugged."  
  
"Gad, what else did they do?" Truman said. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. "They might have bugged something else."  
  
"You telling me it's time we hit the road?" Jerry asked, with a disarming smile.  
  
"Yeah, before those wierdos you spotted at the motel catch up with us," Truman asked.  
  
* * * *  
  
They drove for several miles before they stopped to gas up the Land Rover and have breakfast, which they ate on the road, Jerry juggling his bagel sandwich with the steering wheel.  
  
"Now would Dietrich do that balancing act?" Truman asked, watching him.  
  
"Actually, he stocked up on cans of Slim-Fast. He'd be living off those and, well, whatever else he had stored up. He'd be the first to say he could get by for a while."  
  
"But wouldn't that blow his cover? I mean, didn't he put on the weight to hid from Montressor?"  
  
"I don't think that mattered any more," Jerry said. "Your safety mattered more to him."  
  
"Makes him a better father to me than you did," Trumn said, glowering at Cristoff.  
  
"What?" Sylvia said, baffled.  
  
Truman jabbed one thumb toward Cristoff. "He claims he's my blood father."  
  
Sylvia's brow furrowed. "Is that true?"  
  
Cristoff turned in his seat and looked at them over the back. "It's the truth, that much at least. But I've done a hideous job as a father."  
  
"Well, at least it's working out for the better now," she said, optimistically.  
  
Truman glanced out the back window. Nobody followed them. "So far so good."  
  
They zig-zagged through the mountains that day, making good time. Jerry wanted to get out of the mountains and back to relativen civilization before it got dark so they wouldn't be stuck in the middle of nowhere.  
  
They found a tiny motel in the town of Black Bear, Wyoming just at sundown. The place looked like it was ready to fall down, but it boasted a state of the art satelite dish which stood in the yard alongside a huge homemades sign: "Satelite TV in all rooms.  
  
"Figures, just so they can get the You-Know-What Show," Truman groaned, looking right at the satelite dish as they piled the baggage out of the van into the room for the night.  
  
Later, after a slightly unsatisfying meal of Chinese takeout and while Sylvia washed some clothes and Jerry stood guard, Truman channel-surfed the TV looking for something decent: Jeopardy! with the Senior Tournament; a sort of Robinson Crusoe kind of show with people getting voted off a desert island; Rocky and Bullwinkle; a HUGE snake swallowing a gazelle; a sci-fi movie with with a strangely capitalized title, which appeared to be about the beta-test of some kind of bizarre computer game using even more bizarre-looking units.  
  
Jerry came in at that point, took one look at the screen and his face went pale under the stubble growing on his cheeks.  
  
"You don't want to watch that," he said.  
  
Truman changed the channel. "My thoughts exactly."  
  
"Is it me, or did the male lead look like Jerry?" Sylvia asked innocently, as she hung a shirt over the back of a chair.  
  
Truman ignored this remark. A baseball game; donkey basketball; tropical storm report that went on for fifteen minutes; space shuttle taking off; "I Love Lucy"; another baseball game; "Father Knows Best"; *another* baseball game; a 1930s style gangster movie, but it must have been made recently since it was in color and Tom Hanks was in it.  
  
"What's this doing on the Holiday Channel?" Sylvia asked.  
  
"Father's Day is in a few weeks, and it's about a mob hitman's troubled relationship with his son," Cristoff said.  
  
"Too close to reality," Truman said, changing the channel.  
  
A dog show; a documentary on Pearl Harbor: a World War II movie about the seige of Stalingrad.  
  
"What *is* this about Jude Law movies?" Sylvia asked.  
  
A Thai cooking show; a music video with half-naked African-American girls dancing; "The Twilight Zone": Truman cracked Sylvia up by lipsyncing Rod Serling's opening speech; a movie about a kid android looking for "the Blue Fairy"; a drama about a Mafia family; a slasher horror flick with a clawed hand coming up through a drain while a girl was taking a bath; wrestlers hitting each other with chairs; skateboarding tournament; a British sitcom about a hotel.  
  
"400 channels and there's nothing on," Jerry said.  
  
"Yeah, talk about not being able to get quality with quantity," Truman said.  
  
They found a rerun of Day 5 of "The Truman Show". The adult Truman's finger hovered over the channel up button. Jerry came over and pressed down on the knuckle of that finger, changing it to another channel.  
  
"OW!" Truman said. "What made you do that?!"  
  
"Don't want you having second thoughts about going back," Jerry said.  
  
"Well, there's nothing to go back to, so I'm hardly likely to get tempted," Truman said  
  
Disney version of "Cinderella"; documentary about the World Trade Center Towers; some kind of martial-arts flick with a black-leather cladd woman clobbering five guys; synchronized swimmers; Busby Berkley musical with pretty girls in hoop skirts playing glow in the dark violins; a Robinson Crusoe type family in space; Japanese drummers; Tom and Jerry; Japanese animated film with a girl among odd-looking monsters in a kind of restaurant/spa for monsters; an aerobics class in German; Tom Hanks on a desert island; Ingrid Bergman begging Dooley Wilson to "Play it, Sam"; horror flick with a guy's head exploding; sci-fi film noir with an accordian-toting detective; animated family show about a family making nature movies in the African grasslands; more news about the hunt for Truman Burbank.  
  
"Definately NOT something we wanna watch," Sylvia said.  
  
"Maybe we should watch it, find out where we shouldn't go," Truman said.  
  
The boradcast didn't tell them much, other than police had set up roadblocks all along the Californian border, stopping cars especially with drivers or passengers who matched Truman's description. So far there had been a couple mistaken identities already.  
  
"Well, they don't know we've made it to Wyoming," Truman said.  
  
"Yet." Jerry pointed out. "They just might start hopping up patrols here if they get tipped off or if they strat getting suspicious."  
  
"It's a big country, we can slip through," Sylvia said, hope in her voice, her eyes showing nervousness.  
  
Cristoff shook his head. We haven't reached the Canadian border yet.  
  
"Maybe we should keep moving, take turns driving," Truman said. "One of us can sleep while another one drives. There's four of us, we should be able to divide up the schedule."  
  
"Technically, there's only three of us," Jerry said. "We can hazard exposing you."  
  
"I want to do this," Truman said. "I took the initiative to escape, I'm the one who started it. I should be able to play a part in finishing it."  
  
Cristoff held up one hand as if for quiet. Truman backed down, but he couldn't help thinking, 'Why should I listen to him?!'  
  
"I think Truman is partly right: we should press on as quickly as possible," Cristoff said. "Every time we hole up for the night, that gives us the risk of being seen. If need be, I'll sleep during the day and drive at night when the rest of you are sleeping."  
  
"All right --" Jerry started to say.  
  
Truman glared and cut in. "All right? All right?! Why should we trust him? He's the one who imprisoned me in the first place! How can we trust him not to drive us right back and take me right to Montressor?"  
  
Cristoff leveled his piercing gaze at Truman. "You seem to forget that I'm running from Montressor as well."  
  
"I'll show you, Cris and Sylvia, the maps Dietrich marked for me," Jerry said.   
  
Sylvia smiled a little gauchely, her eyes embarrassed. "Oh dear, maps and I don't mix very well. I once got my family onto the wrong road entirely when we went camping once."  
  
"I could co-pilot," Truman offered.  
  
Jerry and Cristoff looked at him. "That's the most ill-advised thing you can do right now." To Sylvia, he added," I'll co-pilot for you."  
  
"Thanks," she said, not looking at him as she started clearing take-out boxes from the table. "Shouild we pack up and head out now?"  
  
"Let's get one more night of decent sleep before we start the mad dash to the border," Jerry said.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Sweyk hit the wall and slid down it, landing like a heap of rags on the floor.  
  
Montressor lunged at him and holding him by the throat, snatched him up to his level. "How... could... you... FAIL me like that?!"  
  
"I didn' fail," Sweyk choked. "Signal got lost. Prob'ly th' mountains."  
  
Montressor glowered at him, eyes blazing, his albino eye like a hot coal.  
  
"You were supposed to have them move in at the motel, not let them slip away!"  
  
"But... boss, they been pushing for four days now. The crew hadta rest, an' then the signal scrambled itself. Them things really don't do long distance."  
  
"That isn't good enough," Montressor snapped. He let go so suddenly that Sweyk fell to the floor. The larger man tried to rise, but Montressor lunged at him, kicking and punching him in the face, the chest, the groin.  
  
"Now get up," Montressor ordered.  
  
Sweyk pulled himself onto his knees, one hand pressed to his bruised ribs, the other clutching his groin. "Whatcha do that for?" he groaned, getting to his feet..  
  
Montressor grabbed him by what was left of his hair. "Now have them go out there and find Truman!"  
  
"But how? Where?" Sweyk said as Montressor let him go.  
  
Montressor took a cellphone from his breast pocket. "I have my ways of finding that out," he said.  
  
* * * * * * *   
  
Truman and his companions drove steadily through the Rockies, following winding paths. Thank God they were driving a Land Rover, which handled the mountain paths easily.  
  
Jerry drove in the morning and early afternoon, whilke Sylvia drove in the later afternoon into the evening. From late evening into the night, Cristoff drove. They stopped only for food and fuel and the necessities of hygiene and to let the engine cool off. Truman stayed hunkered down in the back seat, staying out of sigh from passing traffic. This gave him a lot of time to think things through.  
  
"Hey Jerry," Truman asked at length.  
  
"Yeah?" Jerry asked.  
  
"Big question: What am I gonna do about my name once we get to Canada? I mean, I can't exactly go by the name Truman Burbank. Someone's bound to recognize me."  
  
"We have that all taken care of," Jerry said. "We created a new identity for you: once we get to Canada. you're Harris Milton."  
  
"Kinda high-flown sounding," Truman said. "Why not something simple like John Smith?"  
  
Sylvia wrinkled her nose. "That's so simple it might be obvious."  
  
"Milton, that was your mother's maiden name," Cristoff said.  
  
Trumna glanced at Cristoff. "Oh?"  
  
"Yes. Gretchen Milton.... We met at film school. She and I were lovers off and on. Till she became pregnant. She refused to have much to do with me after that, but I promised I'd help her find a home for our child. I just didn't tell her where."  
  
"So... what happened to her?" Truman asked.  
  
Cristoff sighed. "She died in a plane crash about fifteen years later. She'd gone on to be a successful director. I don't think she even suspected what I was doing to raise our son."  
  
"Just as well," Truman said. "If she knew it was me and she was smart enough.she'd have sued you for custody."  
  
"She wasn't interested in having a family: she wanted a career. I had to talk her out of having an abortion. I wasn't prepared to be a father, at least not a real one, but I didn't want here to go through that. A friend of my uncle's did and she was never the same woman after that."  
  
Truman wasn't sure what to say to any of this.  
  
Sylvia put her hand on Truman's. "At least you're alive."  
  
"Except for finding you, what a life it's been. The first thirty years were lies." To Jerry, he said, "Okay, so what am I gonna say to people when they ask me what I've been doing up until now?"  
  
"That's simple: you tell them you've had amnesia and you can't remember the least thing of who you are, so the mental hospital that treated you gave you a completely new identity."  
  
"Sounds like something that oughta be on TV," Truman mused, wryly. "Gad, that's another lie."  
  
"It's only for your protection," Jerry said. "I did some travelling once to get away from a woman who was stalking me, and I went under the name Adrian Branchflower."  
  
That somehow didn't seem convincing to Truman, but he set aside that concern. A lot of things had sounded unconvincing lately, but put that thought aside as well. He had his freedom. He had been reunited with Sylvia. He was starting a new life in a new country. He decided to stop worrying about what lay behind him and look ahead, with hope, to what was before him.  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Back in Los Angeles, Marcus, Bettina, Tenniel and the rest of the TLF had set about the hard task of disbanding. With the main office gone, all they could do was pack up the copies of the records stored in the basement of Tenniel's house and post an announcement on the website that they were no longer accepting donations or applications for volunteers.  
  
Tenniel himself wrote and posted an item on the website, describing how, of his own volition, Truman had escaped from the EcoSphere and his whereabouts were now unknown -- not a lie: he didn't know where Truman was and wouldn't know until Jerry called from over the Canadian border. He concluded the item by urging people that if they saw Truman anywhere that they should leave him alone and let him go about his new life undisturbed.  
  
He'd just published the new webpage when the phone rang. He picked it up.  
  
"Hello, Truman Liberation Front?"  
  
"Hello, this is Chloe Damon of OmniCam. May I please speak to Cole Tenniel?" a woman's oddly deep voice on the other end asked.  
  
"I'm he."  
  
"We're working with NBC to produce an exclusive interview with you any other members of your organization who'd care to appear in it."  
  
"Who is it?" Marcus asked.  
  
Tenniel covered the mouthpiece. "It's OmniCam; they want us to do an interview with NBC."  
  
"Tell 'em we're not interested," Marcus said.  
  
Tenniel ignored this and turned back to the phone. "I can't vouch for any of the other members, but I be glad to do it."  
  
"Good, good, then we'll send a car at about seven o'clock this evening. The interview will air tonight on Dateline, at 10. Sorry for the short notice, but we had a difficult time contacting you."  
  
"Yes, I'm afraid things have been rather unsettled since our main office burned. But I'll be ready at seven."  
  
* * *   
  
At seven that evening, a black Cadillac pulled up before Tenniel's house. With Bettina at his side, Tenniel went out as it approached.  
  
A stocky, rat-faced guy with a bandage above one eye climbed out of the front. "You Cole Tenniel? I'm Joel Sweyk from OmniCam," he said in a nasally, slightly sneery voice.  
  
"Yes, I'm he," Tenniel said, introducing Bettina.  
  
"Musta been rough, all that work an' he nipped out by himself," Sweyk said as he helped Bettina into the rear seat. Tenniel climbed in after her.  
  
"Yeah, but it's better that he left on his own," Tenniel said, as Sweyk got in beside the driver. "You look like you got a knock on your head."  
  
Sweyk touched the bandage on his left temple. "Oh, this? Just a scratch. Got in the way when the crew was haulin' set pieces outta th' EcoSphere. Wasn't paying enough attention."  
  
They pulled away, heading into the city.  
  
Tenniel had been interviewed by NBC once before, so it seemed very odd that they weren't heading for the NBC studio. He said as much to Sweyk.  
  
"Oh, we're doin' the interview at the EcoSphere. Dateline wants to get everyone's side of the story at once, yours, Mose Meyers's, even Azor Montressor's."  
  
"What?!" Bettina squealed. "I don't wann hear his side on dryer lint, let alone Truman!"  
  
Sweyk peered over the seatback, shrugging, a smile intended to be disarming on his face. "It's what the stiffs at NBC want: I had no say in it, I'm afraid."  
  
Once they reached the EcoSphere and Sweyk lead them in, Tenniel started to suspect what was really going on. In the offset, trucks trundled loads of dismantled set pieces: buildings, planters, everything imaginable, from the set.  
  
"The crew 's workin' night an' day clearing that shi-- that stuff out," Sweyk called over the din of equipment. "They're almost done clearing out: work on the new sets starts as soon as they clear everything out."  
  
They boarded an elevator which swept them up to what had been Cristoff's apartment, high atop the dome.  
  
They entered to find the room dark except for a few eerie reddish lights set near the walls, clearly not part of the decor, but added later on. The window onto the set had been covered over with a large tapestry.  
  
"Uh, isn't it a little dark in here?" Tenniel asked, starting to turn to Sweyk.  
  
Bettina shrieked. Tenniel found himself looking down the barrel of a gun which Sweyk aimed at his head.  
  
"The lighting's just right if you happen to be me," said a gruff but oily voice. "But enough pleasantaries: I suggest you start the interview by telling us just *where* is Truman Burbank?"  
  
Sweyk nudged Tenniel with the gun. "Look behind you," Sweyk ordered.  
  
Behind him stood a short man in a damask robe, the albinist blotches of his skin livid in the reddish light.  
  
"Azor... Montressor," Tenniel faltered.  
  
"The one and only," Montressor replied. "Thought you could snatch my prize boy away. You forget that I legally *own* Truman. I'm only claiming what's mine by law."  
  
"You can't have him!" Bettina cried. But another goon grabbed her by the throat, choking back all protests.  
  
Montressor regarded Tenniel with his head on one side, a mock sweet smile curling his lips. "And just why may I not?"  
  
"You'd force him to live another lie," Tenniel said.  
  
Montressor's smile turned acid. "At least this time the lie will be a little closer to what reality is really like. But I can't show him this unless you give me a few directions to find him."  
  
"Never!" Tenniel cried.  
  
The gun in Sweyk's hand dug into the side of Tenniel's head. "I'd listen to the metal thing at yer noggin if I were in yer place, fella."  
  
"I only saw the maps briefly," Tenniel dodged.  
  
"Your face says otherwise," Montressor growled. He turned to the goon holding Bettina. "Vlad, the woman."  
  
Vlad threw Bettina onto a couch and held her down by the throat, his other fist ready to crush her head. A third guy mounted the arm of the couch, holding her thighs open. The two looked toward Montressor, ready for the next order.  
  
"Either you tell us what you know about Truman's whereabouts," Montressor drawled. "Or Vlad will beat your beautiful assistant's face to a bloody pulp while Pollar performs an act of indecent assault on her."  
  
Bettina hissed some objection and tried to writh free.  
  
"Leave her alone! Let her go." Tenniel cried. "I'll tell you."  
  
Montressor perched himself in what had been Cristoff's chair. "Finally you come to your senses." He signalled to the henchmen holding Bettina down. They released her and slunk away.  
  
"They're heading to the Canadian border, to Bear Claw, Alberta," Tenniel said, inwardly praying that Truman made it there before Montressor's goons caught up with him.  
  
Montressor nodded. "That's all we needed to know. You've served your purpose."  
  
"But your path to him will run over my dead body," Tenniel said.  
  
Montressor gave Sweyk an odd look.  
  
"Anyt'ing you say," Sweyk said, and pulled the trigger....  
  
* * * * * * * * *  
  
Concluded in the next chapter.....  
  
Afterword: Whoever can correctly identify the unidentified movies and TV shows and channels in the channel-surfing scene will get an honorable mention in the author's notes of the final chapter. I'll give you a hint: there are several Jude Law movies among them. 


	8. The Shocking Revelation and Finale

+J.M.J.+  
  
The Truman Show II: Through the Door in the Sky  
  
By "Matrix Refugee"  
  
Author's note:  
  
At long last, Truman comes to the end of his journey to freedom, but not without more curveballs thrown at his head.... Including the mother of all ontological curveballs....  
  
Disclaimer:  
  
See Chapter I.  
  
Paramount Pictures presents  
  
  
  
A Scott Rudin Production  
  
  
  
A Peter Weir Film  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Truman Show II  
  
  
  
  
  
Featuring  
  
  
  
  
  
Ed Harris Otto Stuckmeyer  
  
  
  
Jude Law Joe Pantoliano  
  
  
  
With Jake Jacobi as Montressor  
  
And as Themselves  
  
  
  
Sylvia Thomas & Truman Burbank  
  
  
  
  
  
Written by Andrew Niccol and R.C.H. Mulhare  
  
  
  
Directed by Peter Weir  
  
* * * * *  
  
Chapter VIII: The Shocking Revelation and Finale  
  
*  
  
The afternoon of the seventh day, Truman and his companions came within sight of the Canadian border, which Jerry pointed out as they paused on the top of a hill.  
  
"We'll slip over it tonight," Jerry said. "Under cover of darkness."  
  
"Sounds like Mexicans trying to slip into the U.S." Truman remarked.  
  
"Only in this case, Canada is a lot more open-hearted," Jerry said. "No border guards."  
  
"As I recall," Cristoff said. "The show was never very popular in Canada."  
  
"And why's that?" Truman asked, actually trying to sound civil for a change.  
  
Cristoff wagged his head. "The critics said it was too sentimental and old-fashioned, that it just didn't fit in the modern age."  
  
"Some of the best support for the TLF came from Canada," Sylvia pointed out.  
  
"Including me?" Jerry asked.  
  
"Yeah, you've been great," Truman said, putting a brotherly hand on Jerry's shoulder. "We couldn't have gotten this far without you."  
  
Jerry grinned at him sheepishly. "Glad to hear that since I've been doing the work of two people."  
  
At the thought of Dietrich, Truman felt an ache in his heart. "Too bad Dietrich couldn't make it."  
  
"I think he did," Syliva said, looking Truman in the face. "I think a little of his strength and tenacity went into you to help you through all this."  
  
"Maybe, but I think most of it was just me wanting to get out of that box I'd been shut up in for thirty years," Truman said. "That's no way for anyone to live."  
  
Cristoff replied to this with a smile, "Are you trying to tell me something?"  
  
Truman looked at him. "Yeah. Don't pull that stunt on anyone ever again, unless they agree to it in writing."  
  
"Don't worry. I won't."  
  
"Why, because the experiment failed?" Truman asked.  
  
"More because it really succeeded too well," Cristoff replied. "It's something I've really started to regret doing in the first place."  
  
"At least you admit you were wrong," Truman said. "But it's a little late for that."  
  
Sylvia put a soothing hand on Truman's shoulder. "At least it came at all." He turned to her and smiled. He found it hard to hang onto his anger with Cristoff when she looked at him like that.  
  
"So the show just wasn't modern enough for Canadian audiences?" Jerry asked Cristoff  
  
"I wasn't trying to make something modern; I was trying to create something that was realistic but innocent, make people feel a little better in this at-times awful world," Cristoff replied.  
  
"Yeah, well, I guess in that respect you didn't make some people feel better," Truman said. "And that includes *ME*"."  
  
Cristoff took this calmly. "I won't argue with you in that regard."  
  
Jerry glanced out the window, toward where the border lay. "Since we're this close, I better give this to you," he said. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small manila envelope. He handed it over the seat back to Truman.  
  
Truman took it and opened it, sliding the contents out into his hand.  
  
Two Canadian national IDs, one with Sylvia's picture and the name "Lauren Garland". The other with Truman's picture and the name Harris Milton.  
  
"I guess this one's for you, *Lauren*," Truman said, handing Sylvia the one with her picture.  
  
"Wow, these look real," Sylvia said.  
  
"They're as real as we can get them," Jerry said. "Let's say I got the TLF in contact with... an artist friend.  
  
"Okay, if Truman's supposed to be a guy with amnesia, what am I supposed to be?" Sylvia said.  
  
"You're a volunteer nurse who fell in love with him when you were working at the hospital where he was staying," Jerry said. "And you gave up that work to help him build a new life."  
  
"Great, I'm married to another nurse!" Truman groaned, with a smile.  
  
"She's only a volunteer one, not a registered one," Jerry said.  
  
"Actually, I took a first aid course when I was trying to get work after I lost my job on the show," Sylvia offered.  
  
"That puts you ahead of Meryl, or whatever he name was," Truman said. "Golly, I don't remember what she even looked like and it doesn't bother me."  
  
"Good. That means you're breaking ties with all that," Cristoff said.  
  
Truman took this in thoughtful silence, his head bent slightly. "You know, I forgot to mistrust you for a second there."  
  
"It's best if you can do that, so we can part company without any hard feelings," Cristoff said.  
  
"But what are you going to do now that Truman and I will be living in Canada?" Sylvia asked.  
  
"I'm not sure yet," Cristoff admitted. "One thing I won't be doing the kind of work I used to do."  
  
That sounded a little odd to Truman, but he thought little of it. They were so close to the end of the road and the beginning of his new life that he didn't want to spoil the feeling of peaceful excitement and anticipation that had come over him.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
As they settled down for a rest, other preparations were being made elsewhere...  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
It was late in the afternoon when Jerry pulled the truck off the road into a stand of trees. Then they heard it, a hum like helicopters rotors roaring. Truman stuck his head out the window to look for the source of the noise.  
  
"Don't let them see you!" Jerry said, pulling him back inside, but not before he glimpsed a helicopter coming in low over the treetops.  
  
"I think they have already!" Sylvia shouted, as the roar overhead grew louder.  
  
So Montressor's coming by air now, Truman thought.  
  
Jerry peeked out. He jumped out of the van, flung open the rear door and dragged Truman out of the back, dumping him on the ground. Truman hardly had time to scrabbble to his feet before Jerry hauled him toward the trees, Sylvia and Cristoff pelting after them. Cristoff's foot caught on a root and he sprawled on his face.  
  
"Cristoff!" Truman yelled.  
  
"Don't stop for me! Keep going!" Cristoff yelled, as the long grass flattened under the downdraft from the turbine.  
  
Jerry led them deeper into the woods, out of sight of the road, deep into the trees, until the roar started to fade in the distance. Truman thought he heard shouts, but his ears might have fooled him. They hid inside a stand of fir trees, listening. The rotors crescendoed, passing overhead, but they kept going, fading into the distance.  
  
"That was close," Truman said, breathing hard.  
  
"Let's go see if they left us anything," Jerry said.  
  
When they walked back to the truck, they found the windows smashed and the sides dented, but it was otherwise intact. But there was no sign of Cristoff.  
  
"Well, we won't have to deal with him any more," Truman said, but that sounded hollow even in his ears.   
  
Sylvia glared at him, he could see tears in her eyes. "How can you talk that way? He was your father."  
  
"He kept me in a cage for almost thirty years," Truman retorted. "At least he's getting what's coming to him."  
  
Sylvia said nothing to this, but a baleful look had come into her eyes.  
  
"I just hope he can convince Montressor to lay off on you,"   
  
"Now what do we do?" Truman asked Jerry.  
  
"We keep going, find another place to settle down till tonight," Jerry said, grimly.  
  
"Good enough for me," Truman said. "As long as we end up in one piece at Bear Paw... Cat Claw... whatever the name of this town is."  
  
"Bear Claw," Jerry said, using a clump of leaves to sweep the glass out of the seats.  
  
"Hey, not bad practise pretending to be someone who's had amnesia," Sylvia said, some of the anger leaving her voice.  
  
"Hey, it was unintentional," Truman said. "But I really wouldn't mind having amnesia for real if I could just forget all that stuff at the EcoSphere, forget all the lies."  
  
"But even if all of that wasn't real, it still affected you as a person, helped shape who you are," Sylvia said.  
  
He realized he couldn't in all honesty argue that with her. "That's true," he admitted. As they climbed into the van and drove away, he let some of the better memories run through his head. Meeting Sylvia, reuniting with the man who had rasied him... but as he tried to remember his childhood, he only came up with the annoying stuff: Mom's illnesses after his father "died". His teacher discouraging his dream to be an explorer.  
  
Come to think of it, he really had grown up to be an explorer. Maybe much of the world was settled, but he was discovering it for the very first time. But he certainly hoped it got less exciting after this. If nothing really exciting happened to him for the rest of his life, he could stand it.  
  
They stopped for their rest near a stand off tall oaks which formed the wind break for a Christmas tree farm.  
  
"So what do we do next?" Truman asked.  
  
"We're still within walking distance of the border, so once it's pitch black, around midnight, we cross the border, find a hotel and put up for the night," Jerry said, curling up in the driver's seat. "Then first thing tomorrow morning, we rent a car and drive to Bear Claw. Then once I've put you two up at the one hotel there and I've helped you settle into the town, your life is your own... Harris Milton."  
  
"Finally," Truman said with a sigh or relief.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Hours later, Truman felt Sylvia nudge him awake. He opened his eyes and sitting up, looked out the window. Darkness had fallen.  
  
"We better move before it gets any later," she said.  
  
Jerry had divided up the essential baggage into three knapsacks, one for each of them. Then he led them through the trees, heading north. The land sloped, growing steep as they entered a rise of hills, but the slope soon led them down a gentle incline, leading them down to a village laid out in a valley floor.  
  
"Is that where we're ending up? That my new home?" Truman asked.  
  
"Not yet. That's only Mulliganville, where we'll put up for the night," Jerry said. "We'll stay the night there at a lodge where a lot of hiker stay, then head north to Bear Claw first thing next morning.  
  
About an hour later, they reached the lodge. The clerk hardly batted an eye at their dishevelled appearances as they checked in and gave them the key to their room.  
  
Truman felt too keyed up and tired at the same time to fall asleep, but he made himself settle down in bed beside an already sleeping Sylvia.  
  
One more morning, and he would be free....  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Jerry found out from the desk clerk where they could rent a car. Immediately after breakfast, they hit the road for Bear Claw. "Estimated arrival time, barring turbulence caused by Montressor, 3 pm," Jerry announced as he jockeyed the rental car onto the road.  
  
The road led them through hills and mountains, which meant they had to take some roads slowly, but Truman found the scenery utterly breath-taking after having lived in an artificial suburb for so long.  
  
"Real mountains," he said, marvelling at them. "Not ones made of poured plaster on chicken wire or whatever they make stuff like that out of."  
  
"Aren't they something?" Jerry said.  
  
Truman rolled down the window and let the breeze tousle his hair. Freedom. Free as the breeze. So this was what it felt like.  
  
At nightfall, they pulled into Bear Claw and put up at the town's one hotel, the Bear's Den, a cozy-looking log-built structure.  
  
A stout, homely but cozy-looking woman sat behind a slightly battered desk in the entryway reading a newspaper as they entered. But she glanced up, looking right at Jerry.  
  
"Hey Peik, long time no see!" she said, standing up. "That your girl?"  
  
"No, she's my buddy Harris's girl," Jerry said, introducing Truman/Harris and Sylvia/Lauren.  
  
"You folks new around here?" the woman, Sharon McKinley asked.  
  
"Yes, we're just starting out, new life together in a new home," Truman said.  
  
"Well, good luck to you both," Sharon said, handing them the keys to their rooms.  
  
Jerry ended up in a tiny room at one end of the twisting upstairs hallway, while Truman and Sylvia had a large but cozy room at the other end, clearly a bridal suite.  
  
Truman took the time to take a bath and shave; when he emerged from the bathroom, he found Sylvia had turned down the bedcovers and was sitting there in her nightgown, clearly waiting for him.  
  
"Sylvia?" he asked  
  
She smiled at him, her eyes warming. "It's Lauren, remember?"  
  
"Yeah, that memory thing acting flooky again," he said as he sat down beside her.  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
"Better rest up: we've got that rough shoot tomorrow," the director said, over the cellphone.  
  
"I know it's only acting, but I don't know if we should put him through this," the actor replied. "It's such a hard scene. He's not exactly the action type."  
  
"Neither are you. Is it him you're worried about or yourself?"  
  
"It's both of us."  
  
* * * * * * * *  
  
Truman woke with the dawn and lay listening to the birds chirping outside. He watched the square of sky framed in the window turn brighter as the sun rose. Syliva/Lauren stirred in his arms, nestling her cheek into his chest.  
  
After breakfast, Jerry took them on the grand tour of the town, the handful of shops, the town's one tiny restaraunt, the woods outside the town proper, then up the slope of Bearclaw Cliff.  
  
"I know these trails like the back of my hand," Jerry said. "My uncle and I cut some of them, the smaller ones anyway."  
  
They entered a deep grove of trees at the base of the cliff slope. As they climbed higher, the trees thinned out, replaced by boulders and large rocks which littered the ground.   
  
"Wow, quite a sight," Truman said. "First time I've ever seen real rocks that big."  
  
"Better enjoy 'em while y' can," said a man's sneery voice from a cleft between the rocks.  
  
A stocky man clad in black emerged from a crevace near them, aiming a pistol at Truman's head.   
  
Other figures, similarly clad, stepped out from other holes and niches in the rocks and from behind fallen trees, all armed, all levelling their weapons at them.  
  
Truman instinctively drew Sylvia to his side. He looked around him, trying to find an escape, but they were surrounded.  
  
"Ring a ring of boulders, a pocketful of guns," said a gruff but oily voice behind him. Truman turned to look.  
  
Directly behind him stood a small man in black like the rest of his crew, but he matched Jerry's description of Montressor: the blotches of white on his skin; the tuft of white in his hair; the eyes: one black, one red.  
  
"Montressor?!" he gasped.  
  
The little man gave him a sweeping but condescending bow. "At your service, Truman Burbank. Or rather... you're at *MY* service, at least in a matter of time."  
  
"I'm not interested after what I've heard about you," Truman said. "Sounds like a great offe, but I've done enough TV work in my life. I'd rather move on to some real work."  
  
Montressor chuckled, a rich but unsettling ripple of sound. "Sorry, it's an offer you can't refuse. You belonged to Cristoff, now you belong to me. I'm just here to claim what's mine."  
  
"Montressor, if you want anyone to act for you, I'll do it," Jerry said. "I'll need the work: Truman hardly needs my help now."  
  
Montressor looked up at Jerry, head tilted back clearly to minimize the fact that he had to look up at him. "That's just the trouble: You're only too willing. But... maybe I can use you. Or the girl."  
  
Sylvia slid her arm from Truman's. "I'll do it, spare him," Sylvia said, resignation in her voice.  
  
"Over my dead body you will!" Truman shouted. He broke loose from the goons that held him back and rushed at Montressor.  
  
The smaller man proved a lot tougher than he looked. They grappled, Montressor trying to kick and bite Truman, but Truman held on, trying to squeeze him hard around the torso. He tried to knock Montressor off his feet, but the smaller man's lower center of gravity worked against him. Montressor tried to shake him off, but they only succeeded in staggering toward the edge of the precipace.  
  
"TRUMAAAAANNN!!!" Sylvia screamed.  
  
Truman felt the ground drop away under his feet. He looked down. He realized this was how it ended. They were freefalling toward certain death. He closed his eyes and waited for the sickening thud.  
  
But they hit something that gave slightly under their weight. He opened his eyes to discover they had landed in... a large safety net.  
  
"What the... What on earth?" Truman asked. He looked up and realized they'd fallen only a couple feet.   
  
Montressor, or whoever he was, crawled out of his grasp and sat up as best he could on the swaying net. He reached up and started fumbling at his hair line. Truman watched him scratching at the tuft of albinist hair, then prying it off. It dawned on Truman that it was a small hairpiece glued to the stranger's scalp.  
  
"I think that's a wrap," the actor called up to the edge of the precipace.  
  
"Wait," Truman said. "I thought I'd escaped from that TV show thing."  
  
"Oh you have," said one of the goons, who'd come over to the edge and leaned over it, unarmed, clearly ready to help them up.  
  
"But... I thought it was over," Truman said.  
  
"It's over, but the producers wanted to see it go off with a bang," the actor who'd played Montressor said.  
  
Jerry had joined the goon at the edge of the drop. "You see, the producers realized they couldn't keep you at the EcoSphere forever, so they had a back-up plan to do a TV movie that would cover how you escaped to the real world, and how you found Sylvia," he said, his British accent full throttle now.  
  
"Then, what was real?" Truman asked, completely baffled.  
  
Sylvia came to the edge of the precipace. "Truman, let them get you back up here."  
  
He reached up to the goon at the edge and let him help him up. The goons were already dispersing, taking small earphones out of their ears as they went. Once he was on solid ground, Sylvia took his hands in hers. "We're real, and so is this town."  
  
That wasn't the answer he really wanted, but it would have to do...  
  
Sylvia smiled at him. At least that much was real.  
  
THE END? 


End file.
